


you didn't get the quest you wanted, you got the one you could do

by mussings_over_tea



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: AU, F/F, M/M, Slow Burn, bear with me and let this boy have this, hush it's the hero journey, literally the worst malaysian religious metaphors, lol literally nick's voice at me YOU ARE DELUSIONAL, mentorship being like hey but what if they were in love too, terrible greek mythology metaphors, terrible tennis metaphors, the author has no chill whatsoever, the author is pretentious, yep the question is what's the actual ship of this story?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 02:31:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 46,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21312712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mussings_over_tea/pseuds/mussings_over_tea
Summary: Every hero journey starts the same. There's a call to adventure, followed by refusal of the call.
Relationships: Nick Kyrgios/Ajla Tomljanović, Nick Kyrgios/Rafael Nadal, Nick Kyrgios/Stefanos Tsitsipas
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	you didn't get the quest you wanted, you got the one you could do

  1. ** Ordinary World**

_This is where the Hero's exists before his present story begins, oblivious of the adventures to come. It's his safe place. His everyday life where we learn crucial details about our Hero, his true nature, capabilities and outlook on life. This anchors the Hero as a human, just like you and me, and makes it easier for us to identify with him and hence later, empathize with his plight._

Nobody dares to call Nick “fat” back in the days when he was all soft and round shapes. First of all, Thanasi would kick their asses from here to Nevada (even though he himself looks like a toothpick, is younger and sometimes people confuse him with a girl, but he proves them wrong and narrow-minded super quick “Even if I was a girl, so what? Take that, jackass.”). Nill never knows who started the ruckus whenever she’s called to school to somehow take responsibilities for both of them. “I was not aware I have 4 children?” she chuckles, collecting them both from detention, not even trying to get to the bottom of this whole thing, because one will have the other’s back anyway and she won’t get any explanation at all. And second of all, Nick never gives them an actual reason to call him “fat. He’s always doing something, rushing to the playground, or to the basketball court. Swimming in the ocean or surfing. Dancing to the music or recording rap videos with his mates. He brims with energy, is fit and agile and always on the move. No one asks him to sit still anymore. It’s always a lost case in the end. Nill would do, often: “Where are you running, son? What chases you?” when he didn’t even bother to clean up after himself, still chewing the stake to rush outside with howls of laughter or hoots of battle cries. Sure enough the answer got lost in the noise. If there even was one. Maybe he himself doesn’t know. Not yet. Not ever.

Out of all the activities he throws himself into he loves team sports the most. It gets so nice inside his head then. When he has Jordan or Thanasi by his side, reassuring him over missed shot or talking strategy with focus of war generals. It very rarely gets so nice inside his head. Only by the ocean. Only when he’s swimming and the white noise of his thoughts buzzing and nagging dissolves and soaks into a pleasant hum of the water. He can stay underwater the longest. “Maybe you’re a Dyuong?” Nill tickles him when wiping the droplets of the ocean from his skin with a towel and trying to warm him up after his night swim. (She no longer lectures “How many times have I told you not to go to the ocean at night?” Her son is an untamable force of nature and she believes in lessons learned the hard way. “If a shark eats me I won’t learn that lesson much, mama,” Nick teases and she smacks him across the head with a kitchen rag, threatening to give all the muffins she baked to Christos and Halimah). “Maybe that’s why I can’t stand still. I was supposed to live in the water?” Nick prompts and she looks at his face that is a mirror image of her own, but his expression earnest and cheeky and she showers it with kisses, before he runs away again. Before he runs away permanently.

And finally, nobody calls him “fat” because Nick always bends the expectations backwards. He is anything but people assume him to be. Just as he can’t sit still, you can’t pin a name to him. Just as Nill can’t keep him in her embrace for long as he is squirming like a cat, to chase the wild (to escape the dragon?) no one else can’t either, with a name, with a label, with a promise. And so that’s how he lives his life. Always on the move. Always in a rush. And Nill never gets her answer.

_Are you running from something? Or are you running to something? _

  1. ** Call To Adventure**

_The Hero's adventure begins when he receives a call to action, such as a direct threat to his safety, his family, his way of life or to the peace of the community in which he lives. It may not be as dramatic as a gunshot, but simply a phone call or conversation but whatever the call is, and however it manifests itself, it ultimately disrupts the comfort of the Hero's Ordinary World and presents a challenge or quest that must be undertaken._

The first time Nick sees a tennis match he rushes to the living room of their house to get them something to drink with Thanasi. He’s sweaty and panting, they are in the middle of their local basketball tournament (the winner gets to ride all the waves and the loser cleans up the other team’s room for a whole month) and as always he’s giving his all to contribute. To make them proud. He throws a glance at the TV screen and he stops mid-step.

He literally pauses.

That doesn’t happen often or maybe ever.

Nick doesn’t stop. Nick is on the move (or on the run) all the time chased by the forces inside him his mom used to call Naga (“You will need a sword to fight off this particular dragon,” his mom told him, he brushed it aside, even if the buzzing inside his head sometimes resembled sounds like roars).

Until he isn’t. Until now. A man on the screen looks scrawny and small. He has terrible hair, tied in an awkward pony tail (honestly, hasn’t he heard of the style?). He looks too thin and very slight. Certainly not strong enough to face the one on the other side of the net: tall, dark, towering, imposing warrior of purpose, wielding his racquet like it is a sword set on fire. But a ponytail boy? A man? moves like he’s flying. Soaring above the ground with grace and artistry and yet there’s strength to his gestures, there’s steel resolve there. He aims the balls with purpose and precision, like it’s effortless, like he’s got magic of Orang Kenit fighting Gedembai. The racquet in his hand looks like merged with his arm, looks like a brush of a painter but sometimes with grunts of determination he wields it like it’s made of steel too. An artist and a swordsman somehow combined. Nick still stares and doesn’t move and watches the battle unfold in front of his eyes with growing wonder and greediness. The boy fights but dances. And the opponent can do nothing to face off his fire and grace.

_Game, set, match, Federer._ The announcer says like the voice of gods judging the ancient games.

The towering presence becomes smaller and weaker until it folds in and kneels for the blazing knight.

_The king is dead long live the king_. The voice booms, calling the towering warrior that became the small shadow Sampras and casting his reign aside, into oblivion, maybe forever?

The boy, no, the man falls to his knees too and sobs. Nick feels a strange tug inside. A fulfillment or an ache for one. The man cries like he can’t contain the realization inside himself that he’s found a belonging. Finally. The dragon’s been defeated and the knight raises his hands in victory of peace and content.

_I know who I am, I know what I want, I know what I want my life to be._

The man doesn’t look like he’s going to run for a while. Maybe never again. The others will run to him and try to beat him or be him or both.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he hears Thanasi’s voice from the hall:

“The hell are you doing, loser?” Thanasi has his hands on his hips, looking like his mama and almost making him giggle (who ended up motherhening whom is hilarious to him. Thanasi would follow him to fire but by the end of the day he will be the one uttering the curse words: “You know I’m with you till the end of the line, bro, but fuck no!” “Spoilsport,” Nick spits half teasing half angry, but maybe mostly grateful, because possibly the words saved him from many sudden deaths after all).

Nick looks dazed. Like he went through some absolute realization. And he isn’t moving, almost at all. Which is absolutely abnormal.

“All right there, man?” Thanasi prompts, actually worried, as he never saw his best friend in a state of such complete stillness. Silent too, to add to that.

“I think I wanna be a professional tennis player,” Nick responds after a while, his voice hoarse, like he hasn’t used it for some time (or maybe never, like everything he confessed or said before in his life was half promise, half statement, irrelevant, not true, pretended?) and full of conviction that only rang in his tone when he was scheming his everyday schemes of skipping school and seeking deadly adventures.

Thanasi drops a ball and as it bounces off the floor and he only manages to mutter stunted, “Well, fuck me if it ain’t a development.”

  1. ** Refusal Of The Call**

_Although the Hero may be eager to accept the quest, at this stage he will have fears that need overcoming. Second thoughts or even deep personal doubts as to whether or not he is up to the challenge. When this happens, the Hero will refuse the call and as a result may suffer somehow. The problem he faces may seem to much to handle and the comfort of home far more attractive than the perilous road ahead. This would also be our own response and once again helps us bond further with the reluctant Hero._

The first time he holds a tennis racquet in his hand leaves him surprised. It’s light, not like a weapon made of steel to fight off dragons at all. (He berates himself for reading too much superhero crap Thanasi continues to collect even though they got drunk, tried their first drugs, touched boobs and fingered girls, which, thank you very much, makes them pretty much the dudes, in his book and the dudes stay away from all the big Ss on latex onesies crap). It fits nicely and he starts swinging and twirling it like it is a sword he used to take it for.

“Whoa, hold your horses, Darth Vader. It’s not a lightsaber, you do realize that, boy?” Will is laughing with genuine affection but so many things in that sentence grind on Nick’s nerves like nails scratching the board he is considering either breaking the racquet altogether or smashing it on Will’s head. “Let’s see if you can hit a ball with it, shall we?”

_Fuck you._ Nick thinks and sure enough the racquet’s smashed into pieces after his first failed attempt to return a ball shot from a ball machine. _And fuck tennis_. He continues in his head at the game of rules and regulations and patterns and routines and some douchebags mocking him and calling him ‘a boy’ when he’s been a man for a while and fuck do they know about anything anyway. If it weren’t for his parents spending hard earned money on his first classes, he would have ran out of the court and never come back. By the end of that first meeting he’s ruined 5 racquets, called Will so many names (some of them out loud and practically spat out) and sent dozes of balls into the sky in rage and frustration. _Hold it like this, move like that, stop, focus, no, that’s not how you should do it_. His head feels like it’s swollen and even though he’s been running on court for over half an hour he feels itchy, like he’s trapped in a cage, the racquet an iron ball wrapped around his arm, burdening him to the ground, threatening him to get swallowed by it and buried alive.

“Don’t worry, kiddo, everyone has a rough beginning, but I can feel, you’re natural. You just have to work to get there,” Will concludes, every word in that sentence like a needle poking on Nick’s skin, sealing the realization in Nick that he’s never going to hate any sport more than he hates tennis.

*

“So, how was it?” Thanasi puffs a smoke, handing him the rest of the cigarette as they hide in the corner of the sport’s club, somewhere behind the shed with the equipment.

“Miserable as fuck. The dude’s been on a power trip and treated me like a fucking errand boy, or something? Like fuck, chill out with that nazi attitude, jesus,” Nick finishes the smoke, still feeling the buzz inside, like he has just escaped a basement where he was held hostage.

“I believe it’s called “training” my man. Get used to it.”

“I’m never going back there again,” Nick’s moving his leg nervously, indicating they should get going (running, escaping). Thanasi knows exactly where to.

“Haven’t your parents paid for the whole month, though?” they start walking, Nick almost breaking into a sprint, like this whole place is a prison he wants to be away from as soon as possible.

“Fuuuuuuuck!”

“I signed in,” Thanasi says after a beat.

“Till the end of the line, bro?” Nick smiles, assuming this is Thanasi’s loyalty speaking and them sharing ups and lows and everything together since they can remember. And at first, it was about loyalty. But Thanasi doesn’t have a roaring dragon in his head taunted by every word the coach says like a bull egged on by the red. And Thanasi’s been thinking about the future, about what he could do with his life, apart from being in the now and here. That won’t earn him much stability and any more prospects. But he never talks to Nick about it. That one time he did (“Hey, man, so do you think we could try NBA professionally?”) Nick started looking at him with that shade of panic and fear and maybe even betrayal, like Thanasi was a stranger seeking to lock Nick up. (“What’s gotten into you? Like fuck labels, no? It kills the game!”) Thanasi was supposed to be younger, but it was always Nick, clinging to now, not yet, please, can we just stay in this carefree for a while? That’s why they’re going to the ocean. The only place grounding Nick in this feeling. Thanasi knows he shouldn’t encourage this. This stagnancy in childish isolation Nick’s been escaping to. But he doesn’t want to see that look on Nick’s face ever again.

“Of course. But you know,” a pause. Treading deep waters carefully, like a true islander. They are on the beach and Nick’s already looking at the ocean, soaking it up, serenity settling on his face, instead of wrinkles of shimmering anger from before. It’s safe to share it with him now. “I’ve been liking it. I’ve been feeling it, maybe more than hoops. And I don’t mind the coaching. There will always be someone coaching you out there, otherwise people wouldn’t grow, you know.”

Nick turns to him. There’s intense focus on his face, Thanasi searches his eyes for that look of offense from before. Nick doesn’t pretend. He doesn’t wear masks. He doesn’t know how to. Everything’s been always pouring out of him like a current, swirling, sucking you in, not letting you go. Maybe he doesn’t feel the hurt. Not yet. Being on a beach soothes the responses. But Thanasi is sure he will. In the meantime he’s snorting and giggling. When someone doesn’t want to grow up, they mastered denial like no one else.

“All right, Plato. Cool your beans and stop being so deep about this shit. I’m just happy I’m gonna have you there by my side, when I go through tortures of listening to Mr Know-It-All Dick and his truths about life. God, just don’t start talking like him. Now let’s go for a swim,” and off he goes, shedding clothes along the way. Shedding skin of a child burdened with creeping on adulthood.

Running. Always running.

*

No one should be here. It’s 10pm and all the classes have finished. But the sound of a tennis ball hitting the clay covered ground is unmistakable. Will’s been running late himself, finishing up with paper work of his protégés. Staring at Nick’s folder and battling with thoughts. The boy’s a mess. There’s a cloud of impenetrable, stormy darkness surrounding the most luminous core though. He can’t let go to waste. He’s been working with more difficult cases, hasn’t he? This diamond in the rough must be salvageable. And he must let the world see the beauty of it. It’s been his job always. Unlost the lost. Bring them home. No matter how long and hard the road is.

Will sneaks on the hall by the window to look for the source of disturbance outside on court and sure enough. It’s his diamond in the rough. He doesn’t even need the court illuminated. Nick does the illumination himself. Without a voice disciplining him, without commands and orders like ropes on his body, he moves like he soars, holding the racquet like it’s a brush and a sword combined. There’s strength and energy to him, but there’s grace of ballet moves. When he serves, he has that mannerism, in which he looks like he’s finishing up a dance routine. He’s covering the entire court, moving swiftly and smartly, making the ball machine crumble to him in submission. There’s music sipping in the background, because Nick can’t be alone with silence (only when he’s in the water, but Will doesn’t know that). It drives his focus and makes him reach heights, like he has wings, like he’s more than a tennis player. Like tennis really is his superpower. And Will promises himself he will make the world see him like this. One day.

  1. ** Meeting The Mentor**

_At this crucial turning point where the Hero desperately needs guidance he meets a mentor figure who gives him something he needs. He could be given an object of great importance, insight into the dilemma he faces, wise advice, practical training or even self-confidence. Whatever the mentor provides the Hero with it serves to dispel his doubts and fears and give him the strength and courage to begin his quest._

He doesn’t leave tennis. He comes back, well, he tries at least. More or less consistently. He struggles between remembering the hero with a blazing sword dancing with strength and grace and between a carefree boy swimming in the ocean, cocooned in perfect silence and serenity. He enters the junior league and there are days the dragon inside him roars with competitiveness.

_I am better than all of you and you will know my name._

But there are other days when every word of encouragement from Will, every shout of motivation from the crowd, every command stated in a robotic way by the umpire sets him on fire and makes him want to run, into the depths of the water that welcomes him with familiarity. He doesn’t care where the ball lands, doesn’t care if he returns it. He doesn’t even feel resentment for this game.

He feels nothing at all.

“Good to see you not on court,” Thanasi joins him on the bench, on their favourite basketball court, wrapped tightly in his music sipping from his headphones and his Celtics sleeveless shirt, like making a stand: I DON’T CARE ABOUT TENNIS.

“Sorry, mom. Did you bring dinner?” Nick swirls the ball on his fingers and bounces it from time to time. Thanasi sometimes feels dizzy with Nick around. Never a dull moment. Never a still moment.

“You know approximately how long the game of tennis lasts, brother?” Thanasi tries to take the ball away from him but Nick’s reflexes are quick, even if he’s distracted by a music or his turmoil of thoughts, so he fails.

“What the fuck, Thanasi?”

“80 minutes. You can play a game of two sets in 40. Like, dude!”

“Is this some kind of lame pep talk, man? Who gives a fuck?”

“You do know kids at the academy look up to you like you’re freaking Federer or Nadal?”

“You don’t get it, bro. It’s not about me playing the quickest game out there. It’s about me not wanting to be there at all, so I’d rather wrap this shit up as fast as I can. Hardly a sportsmanship behavior kids should look up to,” Nick’s up, bouncing a ball, throwing it around, like sensing a trap. Like getting ready to run.

“No. You don’t get it, Nick. It’s about the fact you have that power, if you want. You literally have all the aces right up your sleeve and then you can wrap it up whenever you can. That’s powerful. That’s honestly pretty awesome. Will says see you tomorrow, by the way,” and Thanasi salutes him and leaves, ignoring Nick’s murmured: _the fuck he will._

But he does come. And he holds all the cards in his hand that day. The game feels effortless and he feels like he’s soaring. Almost like the hero with a blazing sword.

*

“How long can these boys play their tennis,” Nana laments, in distress and in awe. Like they all were last night and still are day after. They are rewatching Australian Open final, half the guys from school are there, his family and Will, too. They are supposed to be assessing this spectacle Djokovic and Nadal played for all the nuances of tennis tricks.

“Longest final ever, Ma’am,” Jordan stares transfixed, like he doesn’t know the results, like just by absorbing the images he thinks he can soak up the genius of these guys and become like them. Nick snorts and pretends unaffected. He was there. Last night.

There’s nothing quite like it. He tries to make it for every AO final. The crowd booming like one big living organism, pulsing with every shades of thrill, excitement, joy and being alive. The air is hot with humidity and the emotions. The smell of the mid summer evening, mingled with the dust of the court and the presence of these wired bodies that came here to drink up the hedonism of this celebration.

There’s nothing quite like it.

But to see these titans clash in front of their own eyes. To see them sweat out every last drop of their resolve and determination, to the point of almost crumbling to the ground in exhaustion. The endurance, the resilience, the tenacity. Jesus. They both have it, but Nadal. Fighting for every ball like it’s a decider, like it’s a championship ball. Nick never forgets the hero taking down the king with his blazing sword. But thinking about Federer’s tennis is like reading a comicbook story. It feels like a story. Like something fleeting and unreachable. An ideal, you are supposed to romanticize, but never actually grip and hold for your own. Nadal is physical. Present. Raw. He’s an ancient blacksmith, forging the blazing sword with his bare hands. He makes the sword unbreakable, steel, victorious. By his hard work. By his dedication. By his bleeding with sweat skin. So in the end you can soar like a hero, but what are you without this weapon forged in relentless focus?

“What a brave, beautiful boy, this one. What a strong, unyielding boy,” Nana is swooning over Nadal holding his ground, not breaking, not letting the opponent claim the throne. Not yet. He will eventually. But not because he submitted. It never feels like it with Nadal. The opponent somehow summoned bigger strength than this unyielding tower of force has. This is how it feels with Nadal.

_And what does it make you? Not a hero but a blazing sword itself_.

“Like Nicholas? Is this what my boy looks like out there too?” Nana is reaching out for Nick, her hands bony and frail already. She grasps Nick’s hand and then trails it to his face, to cradle it with affection. She can’t walk anymore. Not like she used to. Brimming with energy and life. Always there when Mama couldn’t. With her hot soup, and her freshly baked muffins and her unconditional love for everything he did. (“When can I dance with you to your album, sweetheart?” “Aren’t basketball players supposed to be tall, Nicholas?” “Is tennis that Chinese sport where you hit a small ball across the table?” Nick would laugh and hold on to her the longest. Maybe the only person that could catch him for the longest time and make him stay still. Make him stay.) He’s going to be playing his Junior Slam soon and he wanted her to see him, to be there. But she won’t. He takes a hold of her hand and kisses it with reverence.

“Nick’s amazing, Nana,” Christos nods eagerly, finishing up his salad. Always a health freak. “He’s so quick and creative. He makes the shots no one else does. He makes people laugh and cheer for him.”

“But is he brave? Is he strong? Does he yield?” Nana is looking at Nick, holding onto her hand, unable to escape her piercing gaze. Like she could always read his soul. Like she could always see the dragon inside trying to scare her boy away.

“I will be, Nana, I will,” he promises and sounds like he means it. Maybe not now. Maybe not yet. Maybe soon.

In his room he bounces the tennis ball against the wall, music in the background filling up the space to battle silence that roars with sounds always. The ball Nadal signed last night. In the fervor of crowd reaching for him. Nick was there. In this presence. Hoping that maybe it will bless him with strength he dreams of. Laughing at Jordan, he’s maybe even more pathetic. He holds the ball like it keeps all the secrets of brave, enduring tennis he chases more than he chases the soaring hero painting his art.

“I will,” he repeats the promise, like a ball is a talisman sealing the deal with fate.

From now on, he takes the ball with him every time he competes. A reminder of a promise. A talisman of fate.

  1. ** Crossing The Threshold**

_The Hero is now ready to act upon his call to adventure and truly begin his quest, whether it be physical, spiritual or emotional. He may go willingly or he may be pushed, but either way he finally crosses the threshold between the world he is familiar with and that which he is not. It may be leaving home for the first time in his life or just doing something he has always been scared to do. However the threshold presents itself, this action signifies the Hero's commitment to his journey an whatever it may have in store for him._

The music spreads inside him with soothing sense of reassurance and the feel of the tennis ball on his palm (if he presses his finger more he thinks he can sense the signature there) is familiar. But this is now. When he’s in the hallway, waiting for the announcer to read his name, the roar of the crowd will awake Naga inside him soon.

No.

He’s not Naga.

Nadal is.

He is the wielder of the blazing sword today. Orang Kenit. He must be. Nana can’t be here but this is for her. He will be brave. He won’t yield. Nadal emits heat and energy not unlike Nagas in the stories could. His body is restless, on fire indeed as he does his jumping on the spot routine, getting ready to devour Nick. Nick thinks of the surface of the ocean, in the calm summer evening. Smooth and peaceful as he’s beneath it, truly breathing with his lungs, in and out, he can, he knows how to, he never drowns, water makes him soar. As he will today.

Nadal doesn’t know him. He’s just another qualifier boy, hoping to get his chance against the titan. Does he feel contempt? Or ignorance? Nick tries to steal glances at him to read his face for any signs of neither or both, but Nadal has only steel focus of an ancient blacksmith for him. The same focus he has before every match. Nick is not a noname to defeat. Nick is a professional tennis player Nadal will face with all the palette of his arsenal. He will fight Nick like he did Djokovic or Federer or Murray before. Nick will never get another chance to get so close to this volcano again. It’s exciting and terrifying.

A rite of passage.

In and out, the water is soundless inside him, the roars do not wake.

He can do this. He will. Like promised.

He never played so long. As long as the Grand Slam finals last. He never thought he could. He doesn’t do enough cardio, he skips the gym just like he does half of his classes. But he doesn’t feel the burn inside his body. Not yet. He doesn’t feel it in his lungs. Not yet. He feels like he’s soaring and the racquet in his hand is on fire to face the dragon the same way Federer did that day on screen of his television when he heard the call to finally go and find himself.

Find his belonging.

There are no easy points with Nadal. He fights like he always does – relentless and requires the same from Nick. And Nick delivers – a question and an answer. Lengthy exchanges, rallies of 21 balls, invitations to the net, he’s brave, he’s outrageous and he’s never loved the game more. The challenge doesn’t feel like a suffocating collar of rules and limitations but an open plain of possibilities. So he goes wild. With a tweener that makes the crowd shout for him in joy, cheer and have fun. With his little dances. With outrageous shots breaking the convention and going against the norm. He brings basketball on the tennis court, and music and colours and fun. To this kingdom of ancient traditions, stiff regulations and entitled pomposity.

The chemistry is palpable and even though he came here as a noname he knows he won’t leave as one anymore. They will know his name. They will remember it. No matter the results. 

He always thought this tournament is not for him. Old geezers with their pompous attitude, holier-than-thou, the grass is slow, he hates the white, makes him feel like a choir boy at the grace of some fat bishop but none of it matters. He feels infinite. Like he was made for this. Like he was born to be here. 

The more they play the more he feels full with control. Orang Kenit shall tame Naga by consuming its strength and making it his own. Isn’t it what the stories always say. Well, this is what he makes the story to be. He tries to seek Nadal’s face in a rush of adrenaline and tension of strategy. His expression. There’s focus and steel, but Nick thinks he can see cracks and confusion and respect sip through. Nick growls when returning Nadal’s fiery balls like gorging himself on this power imbalance.

_See? I can catch up with you? I endure. I stand the ground. Because I am brave and unyielding. _

He wants Nana to see him like this but he wants Nadal to acknowledge it too.

_Now, you will know my name. Now, you will remember it. And it will follow you like a shadow._

The roars inside his head are quiet because they are on his mouth instead as he delivers the killer stroke and soars, infinite and powerful. The hammer of an ancient blacksmith is his now – _behold_.

The joy booms in thousand voices, Nadal shakes his hand and Nick tries to keep his gaze, commit the expression to his memory (Nadal always loses with grace, because he knows why he did, there are no bitter questions of why and how, but Nick likes to think he saw shudder of curiosity and fear on his face then. _Who are you to challenge me like that_?) but it’s a brief moment of exchange of pleasantries and soon Nadal’s gone.

_The King is dead long live the king._ Is it the moment he saw on screen years before? The same defining moment for him?

He sees his family crying for him in the box. _Why do you cry? I can do everything now. I can. I will._

But hubris often conceals itself as glory and so Nadal holds the throne for a long while for Nick to fall into the abyss.

  1. ** Tests, Allies, Enemies**

_Now finally out of his comfort zone the Hero is confronted with an ever more difficult series of challenges that test him in a variety of ways. Obstacles are thrown across his path; whether they be physical hurdles or people bent on thwarting his progress, the Hero must overcome each challenge he is presented with on the journey towards his ultimate goal. _  
  
The Hero needs to find out who can be trusted and who can't. He may earn allies and meet enemies who will, each in their own way, help prepare him for the greater ordeals yet to come. This is the stage where his skills and/or powers are tested and every obstacle that he faces helps us gain a deeper insight into his character and ultimately identify with him even more.

*

No one tells you how lonely it gets during a tennis match. No one tells you how loud it can get in your head during a changeover, when you’re face to face with your fear and insecurity and frustration and the whole palette of emotions roaring inside you with hungry snarls.

They are not allowed to interact with their box or they get punished for being coached. Nick doesn’t seek coaching advice, he knows what he should do out there, he knows the game, he knows the strategy, he’s smart and instinctive out there. He seeks the presence, helping him tame the snarls, an interaction about current thoughts occupying his head, whether it be the fact he didn’t have time to wash his socks before the game, whether it be someone chatting too loud and making him spiral into the loss of focus, whether it be about playing the computer games too long and feeling the headache coming. The whirlpool of thoughts swirls mercilessly inside him and he just needs to channel it on the outside. So he talks all the time, to himself, to his box but the distance makes it impossible to experience the way it should be: close and inside. And reassuring.

He doesn’t get what he needs, so he channels the snarls in a different way, letting the rage take over. And so he gets punished. The money he earns, he spends on fines and it’s been a cycle of his professional career so far.

“It gets so fucking loud there, Dad,” he’s helping George in his recent project, mixing up the paints and cleaning up afterwards.

“It’s a stadium full of people that cheer for you. They cheer your name, they want you to do good, that’s why it’s so loud there,” George ignores Nick’s colourful language by this point. It’s better to let it all out in words than in acts. Though there’s so much of it – Nana calls “it” a dragon – tugging on his son, George knows by now words will never be enough.

Nick is an unstoppable force of nature and you are not supposed to keep a force of nature on the leash. And so you never will.

George doesn’t ask the question that he really wants to ask either_: Is it loud out there or in here? Inside you?_ They had that conversation before and it never ended well. “Yeah, why not sending me to the loonies, huh? While you’re at it. Fuck. Like what even a SPECIALIST means? They are all messed up in the head, trying to fix themselves when using some poor fuckers they told are sick and need help. Fuck that!” Nick always knows best. And then he runs and disappears and stops living with them altogether and from then on there are days they barely see him anyway.

“I know. Jesus, like. I wanna be there, entertain them but sometimes when I’m there it’s like I’m not. It’s like I’m alone and it’s still loud and distracting and I don’t know what they want from me. Sometimes I think about tennis and I don’t wanna do it ever again. Sometimes it gets suffocating,” yes. He no longer lives with them but he inevitably comes back, always. To share everything like this. Disarming and open heart of his boy born with too much and too intensely inside him. George continues putting down the layer of paint, not wanting to pin Nick too intently with attention. You have to be careful. He’s a wild cat that will escape under any sign of abuse of trust. Nick lays out the tools from the pouch on the floor, working with his hands, drumming with his feet, always on the move.

“Listen, son. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m going to share this ultimate wisdom with you now. Brace yourself for the truth,” George booms with a fake voice of a preacher and Nick snorts and shakes his head mumbling something that resembles _unbelievable_ or _hilarious_ or both. “You have a choice. You do. And it’s amazing that you do. You can go out there, have fun, earn money while you’re at it and come back here to play basketball or help your old man with renovations. You can be a legend too. They will know your name and repeat it with awe and adoration like they do Federer’s or Nadal’s. You can even stop playing tennis altogether. Isn’t this amazing? You have a choice, son. You do,” and then George turns to him with seriousness and focus he was preparing the ground for in his comical monologue. Stopping the wild cat from running. “You know where’s the catch, though? You have to make it. You have to choose and this is what’s growing up is about, Nick. If you’re neither here nor there, you are stuck. You are not growing. And it’s only going to get louder and louder,” George nudges Nick’s arm, with affection and, yes, the key word with Nick, reassurance and Nick looks back and nods and maybe sniffles too, before going back to keeping himself busy and moving.

The letter with another fine stays on the table unopened. They don’t need to read it. They know what it says. It’s been a cycle of the same penalties for a while now. 

*

That weird kid with a camera is here again. Nick was supposed to be hitting with Matt before Miami 16 but, surprise, Matt hasn’t shown yet and Nick’s on court earlier. Maybe this is the time when he’s more willing to make a choice and stick to it. Maybe these are the days when he stays committed more than he stays suffocating and torn. That Greek guy, recording everything, more than playing tennis. Nick sees him with a camera more than he does with his racquet and it’s amazing to still watch him on court later on, efficient and graceful and professional. Even though he looks like a hipster kid studying film art, collecting his material for some big project to win junior Cannes awards or something.

But Nick knows better.

He’s been living his life proving everyone wrong and bending the assessments backwards. So there must be more to this kid, than just a pretentious camera and even more pretentious hair. (He keeps it short now and Nick brushes aside disappointment, because since when does he care?).

“Is this about spying on your opponent’s strategy?” Nick throws an offhand comment, bouncing the ball with his racquet, music from the speaker he carries always with him sips in the background.

“Sorry? A kid (there’s wonder and daydream about him that makes Nick want to think about him this way) or a guy (he’s so well-built and moves with force and intent and his eyes, not that Nick was looking or watching or seeing, have melancholy and maturity) stops fixing something on his equipment and goes back to casually record Nick.

“You and your camera on court. Is this about you watching our moves later on to destroy the competition and get on top?”

“Do I look like I want to get on top that bad?” Tsitsipas smiles or sneers behind his camera and Nick never could tell the difference. There’s mirth but a bit of contempt there too. There’s also a promise of something more. Nick thinks when he actually smiles and it’s genuine it must be hell of a view. Or maybe not. Or maybe he doesn’t actually care.

“Depends what you’re asking, bro,” Nick responds with a mirror smirk or a smile, wondering if Tsitsipas gets a hint before berating himself for ever starting his usual routine. Stop flirting with fellow tennis players. Stop falling for the same shitty patterns. That cycle of safe instability, that rollercoaster of moods, as long as it doesn’t get still, stable, as long as it doesn’t settle down. A whirlpool of changes and escapes, away from routine, is his safe place.

“What makes you think I record other tennis players at all? Maybe, it’s just you I keep here” he indicates the camera and the answer is accompanied by a completely straight face and Nick should be annoyed, because Tsitsipas is still holding that camera like a glass separating them or judging Nick, but the way he does, like it’s merged with his hand, like it’s actually him observing Nick stops the frustration and makes room for growing intrigue. And he not only catches up with the hints, he maybe even surpasses Nick.

“Okaaaay. Okay,” there’s teasing purr to his voice, before he screams STOP THIS at himself. Too late. It’s just too easy and fun. And who would have thought? With a weird kid with a camera that dared to cut his hair too short. “But you didn’t answer my question: is this about a strategy or a wank bank material?”

“Choose one of the above: a) both b) neither c) wouldn’t you want to know?” Tsitsipas is still filming and betraying absolutely nothing with his focus. Nick gets lured in even more. And it makes him confused. The intrigue in him is not his usual carefree and fun. It’s genuine curiosity, gripping on him like he never allows anything for too long. 

“Big words and big game but the answer is probably one of your artistic crap about seeing deeper into the core of the world through this lance or some other shit, right?” Nick stops twirling his racquet and hits a mild volley at Tsitsipas, maybe channeling confusion that echoes with irritation now. No one pins Nick down like this. Nope.

Tsitsipas catches the ball effortlessly with one hand still holding his camera but now slowly putting it aside to face Nick, open and ready. With the most magnetizing eyes, Nick will try to name the colour of from now on, even if he pretends he’s brushing the nagging thoughts on the matter aside every time they resurface. “Been watching my blog?” and there’s a return even. Not with a ball, but it could be as well. Sharp and on point. Just like he is on court.

“Obviously. That’s all I do in my free time. Absolutely,” Nick nods all business and seriousness, sarcasm heavy in his voice, indicating with a racquet that he wants his ball back. Instead of throwing it back, Stefanos stands up and approaches Nick, with the mannerism of a ballerina that used to make Nick snort to himself, until he saw how he utilizes this seemingly frail body on court into actual weapon of strength and efficiency. He places the ball on Nick’s racquet, bringing himself closer, irritation in Nick silent, even though this feels dangerously close to being pinned, not on his terms, as close to being trapped.

There’s a wisp of an ocean and peaches that Nick inhales.

Something soothing. Something familiar. Maybe that’s why he’s silent inside. Maybe that’s why he’s waiting.

“Είσαι λαμπερός, είσαι όμορφος όταν παίζεις και καν δεν το ξέρεις. Αλλά όταν τελικά θα, whew,” (You're glowing, you're beautiful when you play and you don't even know. But when you finally will,) Stefanos says and the sound he releases is like something resembling sigh they do after calling for a challenge and having it confirmed. Relief and joy and liberation. Nick’s silence turns back to confusion and then to irritation.

“Sorry, haven’t been doing my Greek homework for a while now, brother,” Tsitsipas and his pretentious riddles. God, what a fucking guy.

“Maybe you should catch up on it then?” again short and on point.

“Are you offering?” like a rally.

“Are you willing?” how come they’ve never played a match together. There are so few players that can catch up with Nick the way he wants the game to unfold. He would have never assumed Stefanos might be the one to know how to. 

“Yo! Loser! I can’t believe my eyes, are you actually early?” Matt’s here, waving at him from the top of the court in his _AUSSIE AUSSIE AUSSIE OI OI OI *a picture of a megaphone* _stupid Tshirt and Nick feels like he’s waking up from a daze. Stefanos’s face comes into focus and Nick has the feeling inside of a déjà vu. Like it happened before. Like this zooming in from a blurry distraction, from reconnecting to connecting happened and does and will. And Stefanos has something to do with it.

“See you around, Nick,” Stefanos then says, like a statement or a promise or both? And Nick wants to run.

But this time not run from.

This time he wants to run to.

Huh.

*

Normally, he would be out there, with the kids, shooting hoops, playing table tennis, showing them the Jedi ways of the racquet (“How do you use the force on the serve, Nick?” they would cheer and Nick would show them knocking all the pins arranged into seemingly challenging structure. “Like this,” and then he would high five them all sprinting among them and making them rush after him in a parade of cheerful jumps and stupid dance moves). Visiting this place reminds him of the purpose of it all, seals it inside his heart, fuels his motivation but mostly helps him remember the joy of sports. Which is how it all began after all.

But not today.

He came by the Foundation to handle some paperwork but kids will always sense him around and he’s not exactly inconspicuous either, all bright colours, headphones and people chatting him up wherever he shows up, because his presence touched so many of their lives, even though he is probably not even aware. Nick is not a kind of a person that just glides through life unnoticed. _Diamond in the rough_, Will would call him. _Superhero in the making_, Ash now heralds, whenever he finds more and more reasons to motivate him for the gym (“Okay, 30 more minutes, Nick and we’re having Call of Duty session with a pizza of your topping.”)

He was supposed to just get in and get out, but then he sees the kids practicing on a tennis court. Most of them wearing NK shirts, but there are some with Nadal’s signature or Roger’s tribute or even #godemon emblem (Alex’s their current rising star, Alex’s Australia’s new hope, Nick maybe never really got there, because he burned out so fast, fell from grace with the most spectacular crash of _you wish_ or _maybe in another lifetime_). He stops mid step on the hall and watches them over the window. That shirt with his initials among the legends.

But he’s neither here nor there.

He’s stuck and looking at the kids play the game makes him want to smash the glass and scream: _stay away from it, it’s the worst thing that can happen to you!_ He clenches his hand and feels the calluses on his fingers. It’s been a while. 2 weeks, he reckons. His hand is shaking, out of anger but maybe it’s a withdrawal too. Seeing them move on the clay surface, hearing the sound of swishing shoes and a ball bouncing off it in such a special way, makes him restless but makes him aching too. Like he hates all the reminders but also misses the feel, the smell, the sensations of tennis filling him up with thrill, rage and excitement unlike anything really does. Now he knows. Maybe he always knew. But it doesn’t change anything, does it?

He’s suspended, most of the days he can’t stand watching tennis, thinking about it, anyone mentioning it in a conversation. And even on his good days it’s like this anyway.

“What’s up, punk. Came for the kids to kick your ass again?”

It’s Ajla. _Fuck._ It’s been a while, too. She’s been away, then she was here, but he was on tour. They kept on missing each other a lot and it was a very good thing. Absolving thing. Not having to face another person he let down. Even though she would never exactly show it. Patient, enduring, hopeful. Almost until the end. Until she couldn’t, until all of it ran out or he gorged on it greedily and used it up like an asshole he is.

“ Did you mean the other way round?” he looks at her as she’s approaching with some papers, wearing her sports gear, athletic, strong, larger than life. Fuck. How could he be so stupid? His fingers dig deep into his own skin as he fights the tension, ache and anger growing.

“Keep telling yourself that. What’s going on? Haven’t heard from you for ages,” she has her hair tied up, her face so achingly familiar: high cheekbones, almond shaped eyes, he would trace it with his fingers when they were lying in bed, cocooned in silence and completion after lovemaking, naked and damp, but peaceful and belonging. His movements adoring like he wanted to commit everything to memory and she would smile her _you’re so sappy_ smile making him feel like nothing will ever be wrong or unfitting or confusing in his life.

What happened?

He did. He and his fucking mess.

“You know me, same old loser, fucking up his life and blaming everyone and everything else for it,” he chuckles, but it’s bitter, his hand no longer a fist of turmoil of emotion, even if inside the storm sizzles.

“So you’re saying I’m still betting on the wrong horse?” they stand by the window, close, but not close enough. Nick seeks physicality with the right people, with people he gives himself to. With Ajla, he always di. Yes, there were times, they couldn’t have enough of each other, but mostly it was about intimacy. It was about her hand on the small of his back to ground him when he got riled by someone or something, It was about her fingers on his nape trailing lightly like soothing a wild cat. It was about them sitting close during family dinners when Nill was planning holidays with Ajla and Nick nudged her in taunts (“I’m terminating this relationship as soon as my dad’s gonna ask you about the colour of the nursery,” he laughs to her mouth, later on, when they sneak out to make out in the corner of George’s old shed.) but also to feel her close, always close. _Yes, I’m here, you idiot. It’s not me, who’s running._

“If you wanna lose all your money and waste your time?” they are watching the kids, their shoulders almost brushing, but he doesn’t dare to look at her to see that faith she always had in him. Even after everything. What best friends do. Because if anything, she was always his best friend first and foremost.

Silence with her was always comfortable. Staying still almost too. Until it wasn’t. And so he’s playing with the zipper of his hoodie, the restlessness for tennis now even more itchy because she’s here, a reminder. A regret. And so he ran and messed it up back then, too.

“Do you miss it?” she asks, after some time of them remaining unmoving, even if no longer stuck. He is. She’s engaged now, climbing high in the doubles rankings and fully in control of her life, like she always was.

Is she asking about tennis? Or about them? Or both?

“Like nothing else,” he answers, openly, disarmingly. A boy. Still a boy. Because she moved on, she always knew how to be in control and he stayed behind, having his fun, falling to pieces.

He’s talking about both.

And so he’s reaching out for her hand, gently, not imposing, just the same boy always touch-starved for her. Their fingers brush and she’s tracing his palm (she used to know by heart every inch of it) to get to his wrist, and feel his pulse beat steadily around the shape of her name tattooed there. (She knew he’s not ready when he showed her the tattoo for the first time. She knew they would eventually end up here. This flashy statement of loyalty at the age of eighteen, with his eyes always escaping to bare legs, when he talks about “banging” and dyes his hair an ugly rotten yellow, just because).

“Unmistakenly, the hands of a tennis player, Nick. You can’t escape it and you don’t really want to. That’s why I know I’m not betting on the wrong horse,” her touch is gone and he clears his throat to cover up whimper he swallows.

So, she is talking about tennis. Of course she is. She’s engaged, she’s whole and in control and his pieces don’t even fit each other in his kingdom of forever young.

“You miss it. And you will always come back. That’s an answer. That’s a choice,” and she nudges his arm. No longer intimate, a lover he could read a body of almost as well as he could read his opponent’s moves on court. A best friend that still believes. Because that’s what a best friend does. Stands by you through and through.

“Don’t be a stranger,” and she’s gone, leaving him standing there for a while. Standing still. Not running. Watching the kids run to return the ball with the sound of shoes gliding on clay spreading with an ache inside him.

So maybe in the end he was talking about tennis too.

*

Tsitsipas plays like he fights for survival, with all his strength and all his skillset. It doesn’t matter if it’s a Grand Slam final or 4th roud of the Masters. He gives everything he has to each ball, showing all the athleticism and physicality he seems to be lacking when he hovers sneakily with his hipster camera, recording his larger than life documentaries.

He reminds him of Nadal. The same fire, the same strong will. The same Orang Kenit from his mama’s stories. The warrior that consumed Nada.

They got their match together. And God, it was nothing Nick expected and everything he didn’t know he longed for. Tsitsipas was right behind him, with every ball, with every return, catching up with the pace and the intensity of the game. Nick watched his face during the game and it was nothing but steel focus. His screams of frustration over loss and joy over victory not different than Nick’s and yet they made Nick shudder in awe and maybe even respect. Stef was encompassing the court with his entire presence and Nick didn’t mind this supernova to his glory. Fight fire with fire. He served all the more fierce balls (Stef returned) and he played with him with all the more disturbing the pace shots (Stef was one step ahead of). There was excitement rising in Nick, engagement unlike during matches with the greatest. Nick wanted to be there, locked in this battle of equals and he never wanted to leave.

Like with Nadal.

Like exhaustion didn’t matter, or lost points, just to follow this rabbit straight to the crater of a volcano or just to be chased by a dragon that came from it and be purged with his fire.

He brought Stef his shoes with a teasing (or partly pleading) smile and Nick thinks the itch inside him was too big in that moment, breathing in the aura of heat and fierce around Tsitsipas and he thinks he let his hand brush the skin. An accident, a question or both. The heat inside him sizzled louder and he wanted more, more, more. Stef did look at Nick’s hand, even though it was a mere second, even thought he could have imagined it. But he did look and he registered and his eyes (_hazel brown warm August at its peak_ eyes) were molten gold. Maybe. For a moment. Like melting “yes”. Maybe. Because the focus of a warrior followed instantly.

Then came doubles and it was a mess, but also being on the same site of the net, still moving in each other’s space and in togetherness, left him breathless with thrill and excitement. He loved every aspect of playing for the team or for others in tennis always, but having Stef lead, with confidence and competence, amazing by the net, both, defender and the fighter, giving orders on the strategy of the game, made Nick want to follow and trust and it usually took so much longer. The wisp of a familiar smell of the ocean and peaches and something that he strongly associated with home filled the air on that day and Nick thinks, he sometimes leaned a little bit longer, when they were consulting the position on court, to bask in it more. To latch onto this trust and familiarity.

As they approach the lockers after the lost game that didn’t feel like it at all to Nick, because his whole body was this pulsing with adrenaline and excitement monument of invincible, Stef casually asks:

“Were you smelling me out there, Nick?”

“Maybe. You do smell super nice, brother.”

“I am not your brother,” Nick never knows if Stef is mocking people or actually being pompously serious and it makes him amused even more.

“Yeah, you definitely have too much hair for that.”

Stefanos starts to unpack his bag, getting ready for the showers, with a whole pile of cosmetics, surprise, surprise. “What do I smell like?” Stef doesn’t look at him, keeping things in a neat order, the complete opposite to the state of Nick’s bench whenever he was, on court, or in the lockers but there is anticipation about him that makes the excitement in Nick feel intoxicating. Stef doesn’t ask him to stop. Is not offended. Stef is curious, too. Which leads to Nick almost replying with disarmingly honest: _Home._ (Fuck, he does, doesn’t he?).

Almost.

“Something sweet and spicy.”

And Stef hangs the towel on his shoulder, with a bag full of bath salts or whatever (maybe, that’s why he always smells of peaches and it’s got nothing to do with familiarity or home) to look Nick in the eye with an unnervingly intriguing challenge. “And what makes it _super nice_?”

_It makes me want to follow you to the shower, wash your hair, touch every inch of your skin to see my hands on you like that, see if you have freckles everywhere, see you arch for me, but I want to show you around Canberra too, swim in my favourite spot on a beach we went to with Koki back in the days, eat my Mum’s lasagna with you and listened to my playlist from Juniors times lying on my bed in a room of my parents’ house._

Whoa. What the fuck did it come from? Nick masks the chocking with casually clearing his throat, his head spinning with the current of intense thoughts as he screamed inside his head: _don’t do this. Don’t do this. You just miss Ajla. You jump at any opportunity to feel this kind of reassurance. Don’t use him to fill yourself up._

“It’s just nice. A good combination,” Nick manages to blurt out, even if molten gold in Stef’s eyes resembles that “yes” from before.

“Ah, okay,” there is disappointment but also amusement there. A mixture that seems Stef’s particular brand. “Good game, Nick. See you around,” Stef intends to leave to refresh himself, when something in Nick’s body snaps, like a gravity pulling him together to this source of heat and known and want, want, want.

“Wait, uhm,” Nick clenches his hand, wanting to touch, but not trusting himself with this stupid, overwhelming need. “Great game, too. Like, the draw’s stupid, yeah? Like how come this is our first match together? Like we should repeat it one time,” fuck, he’s babbling and Stef’s face has that amused or contemptuous or something in between expression, something that only he can pull off, which makes Nick ramble even more.

“You’re going to win this tournament, Nick,” Stef helps him out, stating calmly. Like he’s stating an inevitable truth of life, with firm belief shining in his deep, dark, brown eyes. Nick thinks of a caramel chocolate and almost hears Thanasi’s voice in his head: _is this a fucking romance novel, bro?_

Nick wants to look away because Stefanos seems bare open with his own feelings.

“I am?” he might sound hoarse, like he took too desperate sip of water of a man lost in the desert.

“But don’t get too comfy there. I’m coming after you, _bro_,” Stef smirks, mockery heavy in his voice, and Nick laughs out loud, the flutters of hope inside him distracting and making him sound like he’s choking. _God. When did he lose his game?_

“I’m counting on it,” he still says to that, like that ball travelling between them with rocket pace, hitting all the right spots in perfect angles and returns.

Nick leaves the lockers, just in case that pull inside him leads him to Stefanos’ cabin, seeking that want, want, want, quenching it in selfish abandon.

*

The needle pricks his skin and spreads pleasant feeling of relief on his body. Deserving. Or absolution. He never thought of hurting himself on purpose, of cutting himself to find solution. But maybe his tattoos are all about that. And always were. Maybe under this factor of being cool, there was a boy with issues for scars, a boy wrestling with that Naga inside him.

  1. She was here for 74 years that now feel like 74 hours and there are so many things they could still have done together. He could have still proved to her. No. He didn’t need to prove anything to her. Just share her faith. And her hope. Unfair. Too soon. Why.

It’s been a week since the funeral but only now he feels close to release. When he arranged the meeting at the tattoo parlor and he feels the needle mark his body with what happened and with each prick of it he feels the bubble of emotions becoming bigger and bigger. When it will burst?

For a while he wants to think he hates tennis again. He wants to run away from it. And never look back. For a while it feels like tennis stole her from him. Or him from her. She was always there, when mama couldn’t, with her bright heart, with her mocking him but with her musing his hair in affection (“What on earth have you done to your hair this time, Nicholas? Is this about carnival or Halloween?”). She was there with her dinners and her showing him family pictures and her hugs and kisses, when mama couldn’t. And he was not. He could not. Whenever he left on tour, leaving her behind, seeing that lively aura around her more and more dim , muffled, he felt guilty, he felt frustrated, he felt like a traitor. And she could never go with him. By the time he had made a decision to go on tour permanently, to wrestle the dragon inside him, unyielding and brave, she got sicker and sicker. And the choice tasted like ashes in his mouth. Like a betrayal.

The tattoo is ready. A reminder forever. Not of a betrayal though. These thoughts don’t win in the end.

After tattoo parlor he goes back home. To his parents’ home. To his childhood room, full of pictures of him and Nana, full of memories they made so many of them together. Maybe it will be enough for him to hope and believe for her. He plays some old music from the times when he was skipping classes to play basketball, coming back home dirty to Nana trying to grab him and put him into a bath like a wild cat and he would let her. The only person he would. And he cries, holding onto that tattered ball signed by Nadal. Holding to it like to a life rope.

The tattoo is a reminder of that promise he made to her then. He repeats it out loud and then in his head over and over again until he falls asleep, eyes red but heart calm and at peace.

“I will, Nana. I will.”

*

“Leave it alone, Ash. I’m not in the mood,” Nick groans at Ashcon throwing training gear at him and pulling the curtains open in Nick’s room as Nick struggles to keep both eyes opened.

“You never are, Nick and I manage to get you there, with more or less success, but I always do. So, get up and stop postponing the inevitable,” the smell of coffee and bagels fills up the air and Nick gets more enthusiastic about the prospect now. Sometimes it feels like they got married and it has its pros and cons. Pros being breakfast brought to bed but cons being everything else. Lately, Nick’s been feeling like they drove each other up the wall and everything Ash has to offer is a circle of repetitive inefficiency that started to feel like shackles more and more. He likes Ash as his best friend, he can do Playstation with or go to the pub. Ash as a personal trainer has become a nagging echo of every single figure in Nick’s life giving him orders, repeating the rules, pulling at that iron ball around his neck.

Nick sometimes can’t look at him. It’s been too long and they are stuck in absolute stagnancy.

“Seriously, get dressed, man, there’s someone waiting for you on court,” Ash is a control freak and he’s literally trying to clean up the mess that fills Nick’s room to the brink on a regular basis. _God, is this what being married feels like?_

“What the fuck?” what someone? There’s a spark of intrigue among the greyness of boredom he fell into, after facing another detention.

“And eat it. You’re going to need it. Trust me,” and Ash leaves him with that mysterious hint, after all those years, knowing perfectly well the manual of not only raising Nick up from bed but keeping him engaged.

@

None other than Rafael Nadal is standing in the middle of his private court on Bahamas like a projection of his wishful thinking he tries to dig deep inside himself under denial and repressed longings.

“What the fuck?” well, not standing. It’s not Rafa’s style. Rafa never stands still. He’s the wielder of that primal fire Mama read about, Naga has to devour worlds. (Naga from the stories, Naga inside him). So, if he stood still, he would catch fire, everything around him too. Nadal is hitting the balls like he’s playing the Slam match, like he’s not in the middle of an island, during off season, like he’s not retired and remains the Greatest of All Time (fuck rankings and fuck denial, this is who Rafa always was to him in tennis). The same unyielding strength of a warrior, with grunts (like battle cries), skin covered in the sheen of sweat, muscles like an armour, made of steel, unfailing.

“Always with the late. Always with the face. Good to know not very much changed,” accent thick, he seems to be smirking as he reaches for the towel to wipe the sweat off his brow and nod at Nick to join him. Nick stares and for the very first time in his life he might be speechless. Ash is nudging him to move. “I’ll be having lunch now. We will talk later, if you need to,” a whisper of reassurance and Ash heads for the nearby diner they always grab their burgers at (if the training went well) or salads (if it didn’t).

“What is actually going on in this very moment?” he chokes out, legs made of wool. He’s 19 again, about to go on the grass of Wimbledon to face his greatest fear and his greatest inspiration. They’ve played so many matches along the way, you would have thought you get to tame the awe in you.

But it never dies down. Still hot and fresh.

It fuels the entire palette of other emotions he has nurtured over the years for Nadal. But at the core of them all there is always pure awe.

“We play 2 sets, no deuces, 8points tiebreak. If you defeat me you can have your burger. And I can have my burger,” on point, clean cut, no bullshit. All Rafa. He’s already off to his side of the court, that sprint of a charging bull, steps heavy with intent, like he’s about to face the final.

The challenge in Nick turns from shimmer to a bonfire now.

“And if I lose?” the bravado he always struggles to keep in front of Nadal gets replaced with a sore realism. He was out of tennis for over 2 weeks now. Again. And it’s Rafael Nadal. He can be a director of the tournaments, captain at Laver Cup, training kids in his Academy, playing occasional exhibitions and fishing on his boat but tennis is what the very essence of his soul is made of and you don’t just stop that, you never stop that. It’s in your life for better and for worse. Nick knows that now, even though he struggles to accept it for the most days.

“We play and play and play before you don’t.”

“I’ve won against you before. Many times,” Nick’s reaching for the racquet like it’s a sword in that battle with the dragon. The heat inside him burning pleasantly. The fire warriors warm their hands by before charging into fight. The cockiness is back. He feels like before, whenever the draw put them together, like he can take on the entire world.

“Ah, but can you do that again?” Rafa’s bouncing the ball, assuming serving position, doing his routine. Cut and dry. And for a moment the ache in Nick that stirs is not for tennis alone. But for tennis with Rafa. “Show me,” Rafa throws him a look from that sneering expression he always wears before serving and Nick is now sure what the ache is for.

They play for over 3 hours. Sweating, panting, on the verge of exhaustion, Nick screams a lot, frustration and anger pushing him forward though not stalling him.

Like always with Rafa.

Rafa is fierce and unbreakable.

The greatest. 

Like nothing has changed.

Nick knows this is what he does, plays for everything, gives his everything. But he hasn’t been a professional tennis player for a while and came here, yeah? What for? Came here offseason to give Nick his all. It gives Nick wings and makes him soar like he can take on the entire world. Like he hasn’t felt for a while when training or almost never about tennis with most of the opponents.

Rafa’s shots are unforgiving, he moves like he’s weightless, even though the mass of his body is an intimidating testimony of force unreachable. And Nick chases it all, faces it all and finally breaks it all. Consumes that fire into himself to grow stronger, fierce, more. He falls down on court, with the final roar of victory, like it’s a Slam final and he knows why he picks up the racquet over and over again, why he struggles, why he comes back.

Like he knows the reason for it all. He’s not sure if moisture on his face is sweat or tears or both. Of exhaustion but of epiphany too.

“Again,” Rafa blocks the sun, leaning over Nick. Rafa becomes the sun in the grey, suffocating boredom tennis _sometimes, often, always_? is to him. There’s a hand reaching for him, Nick grabs, maybe too desperate, maybe too terrified that this will all turn out to be a mirage in his head in the end.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

Rafa has rough hands, that played so much tennis in his life, it’s engraved on his body like scars and badges of honour simultaneously. All these times he felt it over the net, sometimes catching him up, other times, still chasing. That strong, grounding hand, reminding him the reasons for it all.

He doesn’t let go right away, just in case it all disappears.

“You fucking serious?” his voice breaks, but only because he almost run himself down on court just now. Only because of that.

“Okay, burger now, but this is how it is from today. You play like this. You play to win. You not waste my time, you not waste your time. And only when I see you play like this out there, I gonna leave you alone,” Rafa talks like he plays tennis. On point and efficient. And Nick feels dizzy at the prospects, swallowing: _no, don’t leave_, like a gasp of exhaustion.

“Is Ash paying you?” Nick throws it out there to Rafa stopping midway in packing his bag. He looks at Nick and starts laughing. Not mockingly. There’s warmth there, Nick thinks he heard him laugh with often during Laver Cup. There’s warmth reserved for people he knows and feels close with.

Or it’s Nick still imaging it all.

Because what other reason Rafael Nadal might have to offer him his time, to offer him his tennis. It’s Rafael Nadal and he’s just an ungrateful, broken, shallow asshole, isn’t he?

“I have money, Nick. Not worry. You talk about this often, no? Me and my money, me and my slams. Big man Rafa and his “power trip””, now he’s mocking and Nick’s torn between embarrassment and nostalgia.

They actually wrote their own story. There were small, petty moments, but there were chapters full of glory unlike in the stories Nill or Nana read to him, too_. _

_No, don’t leave_ makes the source of ache inside him clear as day.

“Why, then?” Nick’s clutching the ball inside his hand, feeling way too young. Feeling like he’s wide open for Rafa to see everything in him.

“I always like the challenge, no?” Rafa’s ready to go, dripping wet but that’s always been such a look on him. Hephaestus working hard in the depths of Olympus for all its divine glory, breaking sweats, giving his all, hands calloused, skin marked, but the Olympus stood because of him. _Thanks _to him. “And maybe I believe you can be a big man, too, no?” Rafa intends to leave, almost dragging the words whimpering inside Nick _no, don’t leave_ onto the outside, loud and ringing with the bare truth. But then, maybe sensing the panic rising, he adds. “I taking a shower and you gonna show me that burger place Ash told about, si?”

“You staying?” Nick blurts out, almost the words that now beat loudly in his heart. And he thinks about taking Rafa to his home, to his family home. And he thinks about him meeting Nana. _She wanted me to be like you, do you think I still can?_ And he’s glad he sweats so much and can hide how much it affects him.

“No. I come all the road here just for a burger,” and they are both laughing and the ache inside Nick becomes something soft and good and beaming. “Oh and do you have any boats here?” Rafa throws in and when Ash sees him enter the diner, face of a boy gripping dreams inside his hands finally, he knows he’s made a good decision.

*

Nick hasn’t seen Stefanos for a while. What’s with him dropping out of the tournaments, or getting suspended or not going at all, because tennis is everything he hates and doesn’t want to come back ever.

Same old, same old.

With Stef being the complete opposite. Always engaged, playing so much tennis, treating these matches like a battlefield. Nick sometimes watched. And even during the days when he was offended at the game, watching Stefanos play, an echo of Rafa there, but his own flames of a warrior burning bright too, made him miss it, made him want to come back. He’s not going to play more matches with Stef if he’s not going to play at all, was sometimes the only thought driving him back on court. Maybe he’s been watching Stef’s videos, too. On occasion. Not that often. Always with the headphones (Stef’s choice of music, pft, how more hip can one get, Nick was not about to be exposed, thank you very much). But maybe because listening to Stef speak directly to his brain with his joy, curiosity and hunger for life, stirred that motivation even more.

Seeing him now, on court, blazing, as they can face each other again, comes with a strange feeling of relief and ache and thrill all combined into butterfly sensations inside his stomach, or his heart, or everywhere.

Stef plays amazing. He pulls the best out of Nick, too. But not best enough. It’s been a while and Stef’s been climbing higher and higher in the rankings and now they talk about him carrying that glory of the future on his shoulders, apparently. Stef is working hard. Stef is Hephaestus too. Building pillars for the Olympus slowly but inevitably. Now, finally among the ranks of the divine where is his place.

“Earth to Nick,” Stef’s face comes into view, a familiar feeling of Nick’s focus shifting and the world becoming blurred with only one focal point that matters. Like something grounding him. Even though he’s been probably staring at Stef’s face the entire time thinking about Greek mythology like a dumbass he is. They are in the lockers and Stef’s been repacking. “I was just saying, sorry for the loss, but you had an amazing comeback. Glad to see you back, too,” Stef is not looking at him but his voice sounds like when he talks about holidays in his videos.

“We gotta stop meeting like this, man,” Nick stands up and gets himself closer to Stef. Not crowding him, but close enough to feel the wisp of a familiar smell.

“Like what?” Stef turns around, bringing them closer, his brown eyes look like embers in a Hephaestus’s furnace.

“Here, in the lockers, exchanging pleasantries and leaving for the entire year or so.”

“Uhm, we are tennis players, Nick, that’s how it works, I think,” Stef has that secretive smile of his, making his eyes look so soft and yet there’s a bite to it. A temperament. A tease.

Nick’s too pumped after the match to focus on a sting the words caused in him.

Just tennis players.

That dialogue they have on court is about something else. Stef asking: _are you back? Back for real this time?_ And Nick replying: _I’m trying, I want to._

“You promised me Greek lessons?” Nick prompts, raising his eyebrow and watching sparkles in Stef’s eyes twinkle. What a delightful view.

“You want to learn Greek?”

“Why not?”

Stef snorts. “In France?’

“And what about it? Unless you’re offering language of love lessons, too,” Nick is nudging him, the distance between them minimal and the dampness of heat of their sweaty bodies heady and intense and, Nick fights to brush aside the images in his head coming in waves.

“Et si je le suis?”Stef states casually, though an echo of a smile dancing on his lips, Nick is staring at, being the clichés of the cliché and openly yearning now, even if he covers it with an offended.

“Get out, bro. Like is there something you can’t do.” Jesus. Can he sound more smitten. He hastily follows up. “ I know, you absolutely suck at FIFA, and considering that equipment you own is honestly pretty spectacular, this is truly failure on its own.”

“So you have been watching my vlogs, Nick?” Fuck. Way to shoot yourself in the feet. Nick puts some distance between them, pretending to be fumbling for his phone in the pocket.

“Told ya before. All the time. Absolutely,”

“You found anything inspirational there?” Stef continues, in that gentle voice of a philosopher he shares life wisdom in, Nick wanted to think of as pretentious but always found endearing instead. Chidlike wonder of a little prince lost on the planet he rebuilds into home.

“Yes, _sensei_. Lots,” of course he did. Watching Stefanos play tennis made him come back in the first place, most probably. And watching Stefanos vlog about his adventures made him want to stay. But he won’t be saying that, will he? So he says it like he’s joking.

“Well, you came back. This is what matters,” disarmingly honest, Stef makes Nick look up. Stef makes him want to get closer again. Stef makes him want to seek more of this. Of the praises? Of appreciation? What is this?

“Why?’ so Nick demands more

“Why what?”

“Why does it matter?”

“I like seeing you on court. I like facing you on court, too.”

Nick’s moving, like a moth to the flame, hungry for praises and wanting, wanting, wanting, so much. He’s leaning closer, a gravity between them undeniable, inevitable and he peers into Stef’s face (the freckles on his nose make him think about counting them with his tongue) before asking.

“Is this all you like about me, Stef?”

Stef is calm, emitting warmth Nick wants to bask in more, always and his eyes shine with joy, the same way they do when he explores places on tour. “Buy me ice-cream and maybe I’ll tell you more.”

“Okay,” Nick says instantly, even though at the back of his head amusement flutters with affection. Little prince on the island indeed.

“Okay, then. See you in five outside.”

And so Nick couldn’t be faster with the shower, rushing out of the lockers with hair still wet.

*

This is surreal. They are in Paris, strolling down the Luvre streets and Stef is literally gorging himself on the biggest ice cream Nick has ever seen Nick has bought for him, because: “Hey, I promised. And you owe me Greek lessons for that one.”

“I think I owe you something else,” Stef is slurping on his snack, with that expression full of wonder of a boy on a beach basking in the sun and soaking up the breeze. A boy in love with the world (and the world in love with him). There are flutters inside Nick that make him feel uneasy so he takes a sip of his coffee from his CAUTION: CONTENT HOT paper cup and of course burns himself spectacularly, coughing up a series of curses.

“I believe the sign is there for a reason, Nick,” Stef is chuckling to himself, entirely way too pleased with this whole situation and Nick continues to pinch himself over the surrealism of it. “Here, you should balance it out?” and now he’s offering him his ice-cream, with smudges of cream still on his lips. Nick coughs some more.

“I’m okay, bro,” he’s far from okay but he has to be. He’s not some highschooler with a crush, is he? Pft. “I’m surprised you’re willing to share this one. You looked ready to devour it at one go,” Nick laughs. He always thought Stef is Christos type of a guy: environmentalist including all that policy of bio products only and salads considered to be dinner food.

“Sorry about that. I love ice-creams. Ice-creams are my poison. Is this how people say it? Or guilty pleasure. Ice-creams are my coffee,” and he continues his love affair with that ice-cream.

In the light of the day, walking by Nick’s side, Nick can see details on Stefanos that will always escape him during matches they play together. In these brief moments over the net, when they are still pumped with adrenaline (but Nick still registers the smell of home then) or in the lockers where they congratulate themselves and leave to be in their parts of the world, separately. Nick can see details that made the flutters come back. Like Stef’s sun kissed face, making his cheeks look rosy. Like his laugh lines making his expression so warm and inviting. He’s so fierce on court. So difficult to read. He’s zoned in and untouchable. And he eats that ice-cream now with eagerness and abashment.

Nick tries not to gulp when he says, “For a guy who vlogs about everything all the time, you’re kinda a mystery, Stefanos.”

“I’m not. Not for the people who want to get to know me,” is this an offer? Is this an accusation? It’s probably neither. It’s a statement of the fact.

They are after all just tennis players.

It still stings. It still makes him feel itchy and almost blurt out: _I want to get to know you better, can we start now?_ But before he does, Stefanos adds: “That’s a one thing I like about you, though,” Stef casts him a brief glance, a reminder of what spurred this meeting at all, all forgotten, because Nick got distracted with the warmth of Stef’s eyes and the realisation he has freckles on his nose.

“Mystery?” Nick snorted. The media always spun the bad boy card. There was never anything of a mystery to him. Nick wonders, how much of this stuff Stefanos saw, read or believed in anyway?

“No,” he has his answer to Stef finishing up crunching on his cone and giggling to himself. Okay, should Nick feel offended now? “Not mystery, Nick. You’re kinda open book, people just don’t know how to read sometimes. It’s about you reversing all the expectations they create around you, after meeting you.”

“As in I’m boring in person?” Nick stops by one of the bakery shops that this city seems to be drowning in, the smell of freshly baked goodies always hanging in the air, luring you in. He also possibly pouts and Stef is still looking at him with that soft laughter in his eyes that makes Nick want to bring that look on his face more often, maybe. And then Stef does something that disarms Nick completely and freezes him on the spot.

“I think you can be pretty bad at reading too, Nick,” Stef bops his nose, like it’s something they do all the time, like they hang out on the streets of Paris all the time, like they are not only tennis players, like they are close, like they are friends.

Nick stares with warmth spreading inside him. Stefanos doesn’t mock him. He doesn’t lecture him either. Stefanos has nothing but fond amusement on his face and God, the way his eyes crinkle, the way his entire face beams, brings back memories of the days spent on the beach in the sun with nothing but carefree and freedom inside him. The sound of the ocean, the smell of the breeze and the feel of the sun rays was all the belonging he needed. And he brims with it right now, too.

“Come on, they have amazing go karts race here,” and Stef is pulling his hand now, he barely manages to throw away the cup into a bin, as he’s dragged behind the speck of gold and warm and beaming energy.

Talking about reversed expectations. _Go karts???_

*

Nick roars into the sky. It’s a sound of frustration thrill exhaustion and adrenaline combined into echoing from the very core of the earth right into the skies battle cry of a warrior, fighting for his life. And it’s only a training. Another one. They’ve been going non-stop, every day, for over 2 weeks. But it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like Nick is here and now and nothing else matters but to bleed himself dry to win this match. Because it does feel like a match. Not like a training. Not like a meeting on court without stakes.

There are always stakes with Rafa.

Whether they are playing an exhibition or a Grand Slam match. It always feels the same. Like life or death. And it always feels like they are the only people in the world, with crowds disappearing, there’s only a court (a battlefield), a ball (dragon’s fire) and a racquet (a sword to become the hero in this story).

And the sounds they make, like talking in their own very special way. The ball hits the ground like a thunder splitting the skies. The racquet sounds like a hammer working in the belly of the Olympus. And their grunts and moans and growls of putting everything they have into this game. Into this relationship on court.

He roars wordless prayer for strength or a plea for more and he zooms back into the game and plays more and plays better. Not one racquet has been destroyed. There’s been no angry ramble to himself either. There’s been pure focus, with his occasional praises and comments out loud instead. And whenever he’s played his tricks, it’s been strategic and winning him points. Even if deep down it is also about theatrics. About making an impression on Rafa.

Pft.

Nick knows by now, it’s not what impresses Rafael Nadal. Cheap tricks and playing a shortcut game. No. What impresses him is bleeding yourself dry to be reborn again with a clear purpose.

“Good. Very good. This work, Nick. All that anger you have, you give to the racquet, you give to the ball and nothing stay inside you. You clean. You free,” Rafa says from the other side of the court, wiping himself dry with a towel.

Nick is buzzing. It’s been 3 hours but he wants more. Sometimes it feels like he never wants to stop.

“Is this how it works with you? Was this always about anger making you so powerful on court?” Nick joins him reluctantly, knowing what’s coming. Knowing it’s them being on borrowed time. Knowing he probably never deserved this to begin with. He grabs a bottle and drinks almost viciously, a new kind of anger and insecurity stirring inside him.

“Hmm,” Rafa raises his eyebrow and makes his _deep in thought_ face and Nick is battling with the bubble of amusement and affection at how familiar it has become. How _his _for if only these few weeks. “Not anger, I think. Determination, more. And focus. Nothing else is there but you and your racquet and the ball you play and slowly you get this point and another point. You lose the next one but it not change nothing. You, racquet, ball and next point, next point, next point. This is your aim. If I don’t get this one, I get another one. I think fishing help with this a lot,” Rafa winks at him and Nick almost spurts out all the water he’s been drinking on.

The ease of this man. The openness. His sense of humour. And genuine. He has no mean bone in his body. He’s all heart. But he’s never lenient or easy to please. His charisma and confidence glow around him with aura of intimidation and expectations that you do want to meet. Nick’s never wanted to impress anyone. He was an angry rebel, spitting at rules and people’s demands. The more he listened to Will’s orders, the more he wanted to smash his racquets. The more he read what media wrote about him, the more he wanted to prove them right. Shallow, labels loving, sensations seeking circus clowns. (And the more he was tightening that noose around his neck, proving them right and burying his chances deeper and deeper).

Nick’s never wanted to impress anyone, until he saw Nadal on screen, until he played Nadal for the first time. And the feeling never stopped. And the feeling spun the avalanche of events that almost buried this chance too. Until it didn’t.

“So what about that fishing? You were asking for boats? Isn’t presentation of this tennis method to train focus kind of necessary for it to work?” Nick hopes he doesn’t sound too desperate.

Rafa’s been staying in the hotel for the entire time. But he did visit Nick’s family. At an awkward, fumbling request. (“So, Mom’s kinda cooking. She has these really amazing Malayan recipes. And she always cooks for like 40 people, and yep, sometimes that many people actually come and, you know, she’s grateful and all that shit and she will be super happy if you try her_ sata_. It’s the best in the neighbourhood.” He put it all on Nill, stressed the entire time how much of his actual excitement bordelining on desperation rings in his voice.) Mom did go overboard with the feast. Nick wanted to help but first she boomed with laughter at his face (“Don’t you dare touch anything in my kitchen, boy. We don’t want to poison anyone or worse, ruin my kitchen.” “Good to know you have your priorities, Mama.”) and then rushed him out of the place with a kitchen rag. There were so many people the dinner wasn’t awkward, which he had been anxious about before. But it also didn’t give him much time with Rafa. Rafa was under crossfire of ridiculous questions (“What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten?” _Thanasi are you 5?_ “So, how’s your rumba moves? We have a pretty big patio outside. Do you dare, Rafa?” _Jesus Christ. Was Halimah actually hitting on Rafael Nadal?_ “There’s a spare room upstairs, you sure, you don’t want to stay for the entire week?” _Mom obviously has no to none chill, the table almost breaking under the weight of the dishes speaks for it enough_. “We watched that 2012 final so many times with the entire family. I think Nick worn the tape at some point. It was a VHS tape, mind you,” _Nick chokes on his meat over his dad’s running commentary_) and Nick didn’t have a chance to share anything, to follow the images he harboured in his head (or maybe had harboured since he can remember). Showing Rafa his room, taking him for the talk with Nana, going to the beach, feeling the serenity of water with him.

And now, Rafa was leaving. Leaving Nick alone halfway on the mountain they were climbing together, leaving him with trust or belief or both that Nick will remember the lessons and even though it’s so very lonely and scary up here, he will face the way up alone and he will manage.

“Another time, maybe,” Rafa’s zipping up his hoodie and Nick feels like he sometimes does during changeovers, waiting for the next game, thoughts banging inside his head with tumult of fear and frustration. He seeks anger. This time empty, hollow anger he can’t channel into anything but despair he buries deep, outside his reach.

“I hate fish anyway, so it doesn’t matter,” Nick starts to throw things into his bag with careless abandon until there’s a hand on his shoulder, warm, calloused hand making him stop, making him feel like all the burden disappears and there’s only feeling of absolutely still underwater.

“Hey, I have to come back. I have academy, and family and you been doing so good, you can do it alone now. Believe,” the word echoes with something Nick said or used to say to other tennis players. Not to himself. Never to himself. It spreads with all the other words Rafa said to him, they overlap and intensify (_That’s it, Anger is good keep it on the outside, Make your service game your biggest weapon, Focus on one ball at a time, one ball, one point, slowly you will get there, to the finish line, to final, to victory_). And then the static inside him merges into one soothing peace around this one shape: _Believe_. “Also, you can hate the fish but you never tried the fish I make. This can’t be,” Nick can’t look at him and see that genuine amusement on his face. Because he’s afraid the words his heart beats with: _Stay, please stay_ will roll out on his tongue from his bloodstream and will shape into deafening scream of desperation.

“And, for sure, we have Australian Open to win,” one last nudge and Rafa’s gone and Nick stands still, chasing the last sensation of warmth on his arm and already spiralling into dark tunnels where thoughts wait in the corners to get to him. Thoughts of the distance that’s always been between them, they both come from the island but the places couldn’t been father away from each other, and Rafa is filled with purpose and hard work, to Nick being shallow, angry, ignorant boy? The thoughts have claws and skeletal bodies reaching out for him to tear him into pieces.

Until this echo of a peaceful, lulling sound of the underwater returns to ground him in now: _Believe._

*

“Stop watching porn or your hand will fall off, jackass,” Thanasi barges into his room like it’s good old days and they are 12 and indeed discovering porn and Thanasi would do the exact same thing and give him the scare of his life. (“Fuck, I thought it was my mother.” Nick would choke on air. “Thanks, babe. I know, I’m the bomb,” Thanasi would wink and they would end up having a pillow fight or a tickling contest, like mature dudes should.)

“Fuck! Have you heard about knocking?” Nick still chokes on air like it’s good old days and fumbles with his laptop, shutting it down way too quickly for it to be casual.

“So, you _are_ watching porn?” Thanasi throws himself onto his bed, making things fall off it (because he’s no longer short and skeletal but very much the opposite. Okay, maybe a tiny bit skeletal.). “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” he tries to take the computer from Nick’s hands but Nick is being very defensive about it for some reason.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Nick tries to distract him but Thanasi knows him like the back of his hand, so it fails immediately.

“You never make fuss over porn, so don’t give me this bullshit,” Thanasi has an inquisitive face of a boy who used to try to come up with creative places to hide the fish from dinner and not make his mom find out, so that a) she thought he is having his portion of vitamins and b) she wouldn’t take it as an offence at her cooking. Nick raises himself up from a bad, laptop safely secured under his arm, as he pretends to be going through clothes scattered in a giant mess all over the floor.

“God, I’m so stupid. You’re watching Tsitsipas vlog, cos you’re missing your babey,” Thanasi jumps on a bed like he won a lottery and throws Nick a triumphant smirk of a master detective (or rather a master twat).

“He hasn’t been vlogging for a while now. He actually makes films. Like short films. Documentaries and he’s really good. People’ve been giving him all that crap but they’re just jealous and like,” Nick stops babbling and catches him on what he has just done only when Thanasi’s manic giggle interrupts his monologue.

“Wow, dude. I mean. WOW. When’s the wedding?”

Nick throws a tennis ball at him his old childhood room is full of (that one he cherishes the most he always keeps in his bag when going on tour. Rafa doesn’t even know). “Get a life, bro.”

“Well, I had to, because my best mate started to ignore me on behalf of his ridiculous infatuation with some other Greek. Like, how dare you, Nicholas?”

“It’s not infatuation,” Nick mumbles, now moving to his old desk he rarely spend time doing homework at, and it was always covered in pile of games boxes or comic books or sports magazines. Nothing has changed. He browses through the mayhem of random things there, pretending he’s looking for something, instead of facing Thanasi and letting him see his face.

“Oh, come on. You’ve been practically inseparable. Like we used to be. This hurts, Nick. Right here,” and Thanasi is touching the very centre of his chest with mocking pathos on his face and dramatic pose of a theatrical actor. And then he gets semi serious. “Real talk, though. I think the last time I’ve seen you like this, was with Ajla,” and dares.

For a while Ajla was a forbidden subject. No one could even mention her name, without having Nick crash and burn into fussiness that was more like a fury. (That’s where shame drives you. To the place where you have nothing but shallow anger with yourself.) Nick turned around and looked at him, without sharp accusation that usually followed, back in those days. But touching his wrist subconsciously.

“Ajla ... was Ajla, man. Like no one comes close. Shit. I had this entire life in my head with her. Ridiculous. Like some cheesy Ryan Gosling romance or some other crap,” Nick would always bring Ryan Gosling into a conversation. Should Thanasi notice the pattern before?

“I know. Nill will probably leave me the house as a payback for grandchildren she is not having because of you.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“An asshole, that speaks facts.”

Nick gives him the look that silently says _I hate you the most in the entire world_ and then plops on the chair by the desk and starts playing with an old PS remote, while surprisingly continuing.

“But Ajla was waiting. She was expecting. She was standing at the end of the road and I had miles to get to her and the more patiently she waited the more I hated it. The entire distance to get to her.”

“Or you were an immature prat, which would be a less fancy way of saying what you just did.”

Nick snorts. Because Thanasi has a point. As always. And God, it no longer stings the way it did before. Because maybe him screwing up like that, screwing up over and over again was necessary for him to eventually find that strength and get to the place where she used to wait for him. Even if she wasn’t there anymore.

“And what? Tsitsipas is not waiting?” Thanasi picks up the philosophical tone, half mocking, but mostly surprised. And gripped. It’s been a long process, full of struggles and scars remaining, but maybe, Nick was growing up. Maybe Nick did grow up and Thanasi didn’t even notice.

“No. He’s not even on this road. Well, not all the time. He pops in and out, in just the right moments. And it’s good. It’s perfect. I don’t have to rush. I don’t have to be scared he’s gone before I get there? Like, I don’t even know, man,” Nick brushes it aside, physically, with his hand, fidgeting on a chair, like emotions run through him with visible currents. And Thanasi feels this ridiculous bubble of affection rise in his heart. He rushes from the bed to ruffle Nick’s hair (he let it grow again) and then pinches his cheeks (and shaved his stubble) making gurgling noises.”Awwwwwww, our Nicky-icky-boo, all grown up now!”

“You’re crazy, bro,” Nick giggles, trying to swat Thanasi away, with not much conviction though.

“Or maybe, it’s just his magical ass? “Thanasi goes all low, sultry voice, trying to tickle Nick like they are 12 not in their late 20s.

Nick knocks him back on the bed, suddenly abashed and stiff. “It’s not like that at all.”

Thanasi stares, refusing to put two and two together. And when he does he gapes in awe.

“So, who are you and what did you do to my asshole best friend?”

“Leave it, Thanasi,” Nick mumbles and pouts, possibly blushing and Thanasi wants to capture this on his phone forever. Not to mock him later on. Jesus. He remembers those talks they had on a beach, where Nick used to run straight underwater to stay there the longest, his serenity, his peace, whenever Thanasi started talking about life, and future, and growing up? Look at him now? When did it happen?

“Hey, I’m happy. I’m happy for you, dude,” Thanasi gets to Nick as he stands with his back towards him, going through his collection of Cds. Or pretending to. And he puts his hand on his shoulder with affection of next of kin, even if not by blood, proud, so proud.

“Jeez, you’re overdoing it. It’s not a Netflix romance of dudes best friends coming to terms with their homo,” Nick still touches Thanasi’s hand. With gratitude and appreciation. Because Thanasi never left. Thanasi was a fixed part of his road, side by side, not rushing him, not waiting for him, not appearing from time to time. He was always there. And he believed. And now, he has his faith rewarded.

“But hey, I think I can see first wrinkles on your face. Here and here and, oh shit, here too,” Thanasi points at various spots on his face, making him turn around and picking up where he left off with the tickling. “Come on, mom made keftethes, I’ve eaten half of the plate already so, just letting you know.”

“You do realise Nill is not YOUR mom, Thanasi?” Nick pushes him backwards so that they could leave, manoeuvring him in between the pile of clutter.

“When she’s not making fish she is, by choice,” the laptop overflowing with memories stays closed on the desk. “So Asian swing, here we go baby!” looms over the door as they run downstairs in a perfect sync.

*

So it started with that date in Paris.

Stef beats him in go karts. Force of nature. Like lightning on the sky. Daring and eager and joyous and Nick couldn’t catch him. But it didn’t feel like it used to. Him running after the impossible. Him never being able to catch it. It’s rushing to the purpose that maybe he’s been blind to all his life.

Completion.

Understanding.

Stef is panting, his cheeks all red, his eyes full of smiles when he takes of the helmet and laughs at him openly: “ I win.” And Nick just stares for a moment, that smile catching. God. The winning streak did not change anything about him. Stef has the same youthful wonder about him. Like he’s a world traveller, hungry for sensations. Like the world still lies there uncovered for him to reach for. Like he’s not a tennis superstar but a stranger in a strange land but open and eager to discover. 

“You should be pretty used to it by now?’ then he adds, maybe unnecessary. Not bitter but a bit blasé. Maybe envious, not of Stefanos’ status in the rankings. No. He knows by now he doesn’t deserve those. Not yet. (And it’s no longer about rankings being rigged and him not caring for those either. It’s the truth). He’s envious of Stef’s hunger for everything. Where he has bravado and empty arrogance that covers up insecurities and fear, Stefanos has pure courage and dare based on hard work. Where Stefanos is passion and curiosity, Nick is cynical hedonism. Still. Still. He’s struggling through routines, going through the motions.

“Do you take me for pretentious superstar the media likes to imply?” Stef nudges him playfully as they walk back to the sports centre to give back the equipment. “I thought, you know all about media talking shit, Nick?”

“Yeah. My point is, never been tennis number one and I wonder doesn’t it get boring?” they handle the formalities and Stef wins a ridiculous plushie he bursts into this pure joy over, catching laughter follows as he instantly turns to Nick with incredulous, “Hey, it looks like you. Look at the face!” and sure enough the plushie wears a smirk and oozes attitude to which Nick snorts and mocks himself in his head for ever seeing a personality in some goddamn plushie.

Like Stef’s being earnest is catching too.

“Hilarious,” Nick tries to mumble but it comes out entirely too amused for his tastes. He’s also itchy, because Stef walks them out of the compound and they seem to be getting back to the hotel, indicating the end of their day together.

“I know, I am,” Stef winks and keeps the plushie like an actually valuable prize and maybe making that comparison to Nick and then holding onto it with so much enthusiasm makes Nick feel stupidly happy or maybe even proud. Ridiculous! “And to answer to your question, winning is never boring if it’s earned.” Fuck. Nick used to take it for pretentious wisdom of a wanna-be hipster. But now it comes with a long list of evidence, of Stefanos working hard and consistently getting there. Stefanos is sharing actually lived life experience with him. And he doesn’t sound pompous, but genuine and open.

As he has a right.

As he’s earned.

“Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that.” miles between them, how can he rushed through the light years ever?

“Would you want to, though?” Stef asks, all serious and waiting. Like it’s important to him somehow.

They used to ask Nick this question a lot. And it always cornered him into frustration that felt like shackles on him, claustrophobia of obligations. Him being ungrateful by wasting blessed opportunities.

It’s been a while since anyone asked it the last time.

Maybe they stopped expecting. Stopped demanding. Stopped waiting for him. And he has nothing to run from, that’s good. But also nothing to rush to either, because they crossed him out from the race entirely. Maybe he missed his chance and he is going to be remembered as the resident entertainer, never a professional tennis player.

And maybe now it bothers him.

“If it would mean more days like today?” he doesn’t admit it though, instead going for the teasing. 

His old ways.

He bites his tongue. Because he doesn’t want to go back to his old ways. There’s something endlessly inspiring about Stef, making Nick want to be in the moment with Stef or rush to him to catch it, rather than hastily taste the surface left with nothing but shallow hedonism inside.

Even if he does think about Stef’s neck when he throws his head back to laugh his rich laugh. He does think about marking skin there and nuzzling that perfectly shaped jawline straight to his earlobe to ask all warm breath and wet mouth: _Can I fuck you?_

“Days of me kicking your ass?” Stef teases, brief touch of his arm brushing against Nick’s playful but exciting too.

“Ha ha. With the current state of things that’s not some super achievement, you know,” maybe he sounds a little bitter, even if he has only himself to blame for that state of things.

“But on your best days? You’re fishing for compliments, Nick.” Stefanos tuts.

“I don’t fish. I hate the fish. By association, cos Thanasi hated it all his life. Friends’ solidarity,” is he babbling like a lunatic?

“Okay. That’s random,” even if he is, Stefanos wears that small smile with a touch of affection to which Nick can ramble away some more if it means keeping it there, to be honest.

“Yeah, that’s totally ridiculous. And what I meant was us. Hanging out. Talking and shit,” now, that’s more like it. Use half words and sound like an idiot. Bravo. Nick wonders how that smile would taste like on his own lips, if he were to kiss it away. So it’s all down to his spiralling brain, getting to his old habits and betraying him for a shallow asshole he is.

“We don’t have to be on tour to do that, Nick. But if it means you want to come back. if it means you want to stay,” Stefanos stops and looks at him with hope and optimism and Nick gets lost in that look on his face, in his eyes, like a lovesick puppy for a minute or 50. They are by the hotel. Stef’s cheeks are still red, from the wind, making his hair a mess too. Now falling into his eyes in a disarray.

Before he stops himself, Nick reaches out and tucks one loose lock behind Stef’s ear, a gesture he noticed Stefanos does often, when he’s nervous and talking to the media, or when he’s shy and answering their stupid questions or when he used to get excited about his travels like there’s a whole world to see and admire and love and live.

Stef’s eyes flutter and he parts his lips. Maybe it’s a surprise or maybe something entirely else. Either way it sends of jolt of want to the pit of Nick’s stomach when he withdraws his hand and puts it in the pocket of his hoodie to stop himself from doing anything else. (_His thumb on that bottom lip, warm sigh of silent permission, Nick drinking wind from Stefanos’ mouth, open and hungry for him, just as much_). 

“Yeah. I want it all,” he sounds hoarse and he really means all.

“Talking and shit, you say?” Stefanos smirks, like a mind-reader.

“And shit,” Nick swallows audibly, his throat dry, his voice rich purr of not even lust.

Desperation.

Fuck. He’s a walking cliché.

“Sounds charming, but not today. I’m already late for a dinner with my family,” Nick’s been already thinking about that neck arching so prettily under his tongue but Stefanos turns out to be a better man out of them both, as he often or always does and breaks through Nick’s patterns with a disappointed shrug but mischief echoing somewhere there too. “But thanks for the date. We should repeat it,” and Stef just like that is in his peripheral vision (that grounding force making him focus) and plants a light kiss on Nick’s cheek (a wisp of an ocean, a wind, something sweet and rich and delicious fills Nick up along with all shades of longings) like it’s something of theirs, like it’s something they’ve been doing for weeks now.

Then, he’s gone (he does that, all the time, making Nick want to rush to him all the more, and there is no pressure of demands, there is a thrill of a chase instead) leaving Nick with a cluster of unresolved wants.

*

Stef has more faith in Nick than Nick deserves, so as a result he’s still not entirely back on tour. He plays some Masters, misses the grass, even though he would have never thought this will become his favourite surface and his favourite place to be. Tournaments proceeding Wimbledon and everything surrounding this event has a touch of recognition and importance that no longer smells like old-fashioned pomposity to Nick.

Suddenly, it becomes something desired.

Something significant.

The press has stopped writing about him. If he’s not breaking the rules, challenging the old order, being a menace on court, he’s invalid. Not until he wins and even then it’s fleeting and temporary and there’s reign of Medvedev and Tsitsipas on court anyway.

It doesn’t bother him. Non-existing either here (as a clown on the front page) or there (a genius kid that finally utilised his potential or continues to waste it). When the thoughts start to buzz inside him, threatening to take over with white noise, he remembers Rafa’s words: _one ball at a time, slowly, point by point_ and he clutches the ball with his signature to find his own centre and to breathe.

He’s not on tour that often so they don’t really see each other that often. Nick pretends he hasn’t thought about Stef in his residence, away from tennis, eating pieces of oranges from Nick’s hand in white fluffy bathrobe, on Nick’s bed that still smells of them, the juice from Stef’s lips sliding down his perfect neck and his collarbone and “Ooops, let me get that” Nick drinks up with a hum of satisfaction to Stef laughing and what a sound against Nick’s mouth on his throat that is, because that would be cheesy, right? Besides, Stefanos has his priorities and when he plays tennis he’s entirely devoted to it and going from one place to another to Nick still not ready to chase this particular thread.

(He knows the countdown to January has already begun, his head rings with it all too often, and that’s the problem).

But all of it doesn’t mean they can’t text, which they do a lot, about the silliest things.

Stef sends him a picture of a plushie he won in Paris after go karts race and dared to call Nikklaus, hugging another plushie fish with a caption: I LARB FISH and Nick tears himself away from a paperwork at the foundation (he has been doing his own paperwork for crying out loud) to genuinely giggle over this.

_no he doesnt he larbs sea food _

_But this is the fish cooked by me. I learned cooking and been quite good at it, imagine that._

_lol what a fckin surprise youre good at everything you do _(Fuck, did it sound bitter or too needy? Too late, it’s sent)

_I’m terrible at Play station, you tell me that often and loudly. _

_then come to bahamas b <strike>baby</strike> and lets change this appalling state of things _(He backspaces on that ‘baby’ I mean saying it is something else, but seeing it in writing, Jesus Christ)

_I wish. _

_u would? _(he clutches on the phone, wave of images with bathrobe discarded on the floor and Stef sprawled in his sheets make him almost sweat. He’s pathetic.)

_Yes, where else would I cook you your fish, Nick. _

_u wanna come to my house and cook me dinner?! _(they rarely leave the bed in these images that now become all sounds and sensations)

_Well, when you put it this way it sounds like I’m imposing or worse, planning to propose or something. _

_its either its cool that would be real cool .... _(there’s an ache inside him now, that feels itchy and pushing. Stefanos doesn’t write for a moment or two that fuels the ache in him)

_I think you would really enjoy my fish, Nick._

_r u sexting now? _(He goes for teasing, because suddenly this entire conversation has been becoming way too intense).

_Honestly, Nick. Do you give me so little credit? I’m way more classy than that when sexting._

_you are? ok....._

_............_

_.........._

_I’m not sexting now. We’re talking about the fish._

_way 2 kill the mood stef _

_Shut up._

_this is a mobile phone conversation stef_

_haha _

_so when do u sext?_

_When I’m not talking about the fish._

_ok good to know ill keep that in mind_

_..... Ok? _

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

_I don’t even want to know._

_@_

There are tons of links with music and literature too. (Stef keeps on asking him to read The Hero Journey in Greek because

_It’s good practice. _

_are there pictures?_

_Don’t be a cliché jock._

_and u dont be a cliché nerd _

Their music tastes differ vastly but Nick still falls asleep with a little mix tape of Stef’s music recommendations, sipping softly in the background, and God, the lines interchange and make up this whole musical image of Stef’s message for him. Or about him.

_lights up and they know who you are know who you are do you know who you are? // so here goes my real life unscripted unwritten for all that you've given forgiving i'm driven // too opinionated for the pacifist, too out of touch to be in style too broke for the rich kids, I don't know what normal is what's normal anyway? What's normal anyway? // what if I lost my lives? what if I said game over? what if I forget my lines and I lose all my composure? // the hair on your face the way that you say the things that you do i've been through all of the games all of the ways that you've been fooled you never think that you can fly you'll always swim against the tide don't you know your pain is mine and I would die a thousand times to ease your mind to ease your mind_

This one message woven-in there: _I see you._ Echoing with: _Believe._

_ thx stef _(He makes it all casual and kind of sloppy the next day, even if that ache inside him grew so much bigger, sometimes it hurts, sometimes it flutters).

_Sure, but for what, Nick?_

_(for being there)_ He wants to write but he just throws neutral: _just in general _Hoping Stef will know.

_Anytime. _He sounds like he does.

@

There are ridiculous viral videos they share, keysmashing messages at each other, making absolutely no sense. There’s ranking Greek food according to the most finesse and squabbling over these choices.

_baklava is satans food man _

_I have never been more offended in my entire life?!_

_these r facts stef u gotta deal with it bougatsa rulz and thats that_

_But, like? You are betraying centuries of traditions? You’ve been an Aussie for far too long! You’re going to have to visit us in Greece and I’m so baking the best baklava you have ever tried in your life! Ok, mom’s helping, I’m not that good in the kitchen but I’m going to be totally helping out. _

_u wanna feed me again stef? want me to get fat and never play good tennis again huh? _(The warmth inside him settles at the pit of his stomach, soothing and cosy and familiar. God. Stef talks about it like they have a life together somehow? Even if they continue to be set apart by miles and Nick’s mental struggles and Stef’s job).

_Sure. That’s the goal, Nick. _

_i knew its been true what they been sayin about u all along number 1 of tennis at all cost necessary _

Stef doesn’t reply, making Nick wonder if he maybe went too far. The media could be hurting. The media could get to your head. He’s always known that and Stef did too. But Stef always seemed to act above it. Thick skin. Will of steel.

_Sometimes I get very sad over our would haves, Nick. _

It hits him deep. With regrets and shame, too. Even though it’s not Stefanos’ agenda at all. It’s Stef in all his openness saying to him: _I miss you._

This Nick knows.

This he can read.

But he’s still in shambles. Dragging himself on court some days (with Ash’s harsh physical and eating routines). Other days feeling like he can take on the entire world (after Facetime with Rafa during which he never asks this one burning question: “When will you come?” (_<strike>back to me</strike>_). And there are days he just stays at home, cooped up, playing computer games and pretending tennis doesn’t exist and he doesn’t watch all the matches he can, feeling empty and bare (any other day).

His hand feels like it weights tons when he’s typing back.

_i will come to greece stef what r u talking about were not dyin r we?_

He knows that now these are still only empty promises he makes.

_Good. Cos I have lots of things to show you and we have to fix your taste in Greek cuisine _ _J_ _._

Stef still believes or maybe he’s just being polite.

@

When he’s not on tour, there are days he avoids tennis and anything related to it. But they don’t last long. It’s like a withdrawal, he gets snappier than normally, his hands itch for a racquet and he dreams of the sound of balls hitting the ground as he wins the final point and falls to the ground weightless and soaring and nothing compares to this feeling of infinite and getting there on your own.

The hero of your own story.

Finally.

Then he wakes up and it’s all the same. He’s still not ready but he misses it and he wants to. He wants to so much he gets angry and starts hating it again.

And the circle repeats.

He watches the tournaments, when he crawls back from the stage of pretending he can keep away and when he’s not part of the tour. He watches Stefanos play. Settle in his reign supreme, occasionally challenged by others, often by Medvedev. The guys on top positions change, but his game remains solid, consistent and mostly untouchable. There’s heart and passion, there’s strength and precision and there’s resilience and stamina. The way Stef moves, the way he’s graceful and light on court with his vintage tennis, reminds Nick Federer so much – that match of the hero challenging the beast to take over the throne. It’s in every match Stefanos plays, whether he wins, whether he loses, the will to face, to fight and to win over the opponent is always there. So yes, the instruments are Federer’s (Stefanos wields the same flaming sword Nick thought the tennis racquet is back in those days) but that core, that want or focus to win and work on it point by point, ball after ball is Rafa’s.

And everything else is uniquely Stef’s.

_*in an obnoxious sports reporter voice* hmm whos gonna challenge greedy _ _undefeated superstar from greece? _

Nick texts after Roland Garros final coverage ends and Stef’s beaming face lights up his screen, like it’s the first time for him, like he doesn’t have 10 titles already, still in love and absolutely devoted to the game.

Just like Rafa used to be, even when lifting his 15th Roland Garros’ trophy. The last one he did before retiring. Fitting. This is where it began and this is where it ended for Rafa, the Goat.

No. Not true You don’t stop being the Goat.

The response comes later, when Nick tries to soothe the ache for tennis, for himself, for them, maybe for all of it with music.

_I know one guy form Bahamas that is very stubborn and refuses to take on the challenge, leaving me on read all the time. _

These kind of messages never come with a pressing feeling of expectation. But Nick feels it all the same. The sound of a clock in the room loud. Deafening even. Tick, tock, tick, tock. _You don’t even matter in this race anymore._

_what an asshole dont waste your time on him_

Nick absolutely means it. Stefanos is a bright river, flowing to the ocean, becoming one with it.

He is drying out mud.

_What tennis taught me is a huge amount of patience so I don’t think I’m giving up on him that easy. _

He would get angry at people nudging him like this back in the days. With trying to stir guilt in him like this. Mom would say: _you’re wasting away here, baby._ Dad would say: _whatever you decide, son, but the court is missing a star. _Christos would say: _dude, you being out there, with your magic? Epic. Like tennis is so boring without it. _He had so much support he used to take for pressure.

He doesn’t read it as such anymore. He knows it’s his decision. His decision only.

_anyway gr8 match another gr8 final congrats stef must be gettin borin ;-)_

_It is... The Tour really misses you, you know?_

_umpires the most im sure _

Nick wants to probe: do you? And how much? But it’s childish and desperate and Stef showed him enough support as it is. (Is this about support to a fellow tennis player?).

_They are literally lamenting here. _

_LOL._

_Thanks. _

_for what?_

_For kind words. _

_anytime_

Hmm, who would have thought? It seems he has nothing but kind words for Stef. Words. Words. Words.

Fuck, it’s not him. He’s a doer, isn’t he?

@

There are so many picture Stefanos sends him from tour (with a vibe: _wish you were here_, but never actually stated anywhere clearly). With bizarre slogans on the streets in Washington (This tunnel eats: _seriously, the echo there is super creepy_), people of Paris and their parking bicycles whenever, wherever, randomly set up in the middle of the streets stalls with all forms and shapes of umbrellas in London, just in case (_and yes, there are boob shaped umbrellas Nick that are very much on constant demand_). There are things he ate, pictures of Nikklaus the plushie too (by AO trophie with Stef’s: _look how handsome?_; or _eating Greek food that matters, _or watching some of their old Masters with Nick on screen chatting away to himself after another set won, nearing close to winning the match, Nikklaus the plushie with his smirking face in the camera looks like it’s saying the caption: _This is that stubborn Aussie that refuses to come and challenge me, pft._)

His phone and laptop are full of these. Like life never actually lived. Like life passing by as he’s stuck, battling his demons.

It’s not him. He wielded the flaming sword once, he wielded it again, and again and then he fell into white noise. And he never scrambled from it entirely. He’s a doer, though? He doesn’t stand by when life happens?

*

Rafa comes after US Open. They are thinking about Asian swing. A preparation for January.

January always looms on the horizon.

January never stops being the mile stone.

There or nowhere.

Even if Rafa tries to knock this kind of thinking from his head. (“Remember. Just like you think about every ball, every point. You think about one match and one match only. Step by step. This is how you move up. Always. That’s biology, Nick,” Nick chuckles. “Since when you’re teaching at the uni, Senor Nadal?”).

They are eating burgers after a long day training session. Rafa stuffs himself with his with eagerness of a little boy and Nick can’t sometimes believe that this man is the titan of tennis, a husband, a father and an occasional fisherman, too. Nick smiles to Rafa raising his eyebrow in a trademark fashion, absolutely adorably confused.

“Have something on my face?” he asks, with mouth’s full, making the whole image even more disarming.

“Nothing, nothing,” Nick waves his hand off, discarding, mostly the words that almost come out. _Your face. _“I’m just glad you could make it,” he phrases and rephrases it in his head not to make it sound too exposing. Because what he really wants to say is: _I’m happy that you’re here._ _As you. Not only my coach. _

“Don’t get funny, Nick. Of course, I’m here. We have matches to win,” that incredulous face and that _we_ in his voice makes Nick think January came and went and he did it, and he’s a new man and whenever, wherever he can access this part of himself again and win. Mostly with himself.

God. Just like that he’s thinking about Rafa staying for Christmas, about cooking with Mom, about unpacking presents he wants to buy for him. He’s selfish and greedy. He’s pathetic.

“This is not the face I want to see when I talk about that wins we will have, Nick,” there’s calloused hand on his now. Rafa’s always been very tactile. With everyone. But Nick always responds the same, when his hand comes in contact with his skin in any way. It’s a jolt of current somehow spreading with peace and reassurance inside.

“How about this face?” Nick makes a silly one to Rafa shaking his head in unconvincing disapproval, smile on his lips maybe betraying affection. Nick hopes.

They finish up eating in semi-silence. Rafa’s jiggling his leg, like he always did during changeovers and Nick is humming to the radio playing some pop hits. On the outside they look like mirror images of themselves.

Always on the move.

After a while, Nick voices the thoughts that keep on coming back in his head. Have been since he made a decision of giving tennis a chance. A serious chance. But a mocking echo of _it’s too late_ always following it.

“They forgot about me. They don’t care. What’s the point, Rafa?” he slurps on his cola to hide with his fear, with the way his voice sounds small and resigned. Rafa wants his roars to the sky. Nick thinks he might be out of roars, maybe entirely.

Rafa looks at him sharply. Brown eyes blazing with gold now. Not anger. Engagement and passionate focus. Nick shivers. That’s powerful. That’s intense. _That’s for him_.

“They. They. They. Who are they? Don’t matter. There is no they, Nick. There is you, you and you. On court you always fight with the opponent but you win with you. And you do it for you. Hero from your comic book stories, si?” Rafa’s smile beaming with faith and reassurance directed at you is an entirely different weapon of destruction for Nick. His heart feels so big, like it’s about to burst into pieces that will still beat with all shades of Rafael’s name.

He needs to turn away from him. The wave from his heart overflows in him and he thinks he might be on the verge of tears. He’s a mess but he also never felt lighter. And more grounded. Like he knows what to do. And nothing can stop him.

“Have you read the ones I sent you, bro?” he tries to keep it casual, to disperse the moment that expands in him into an overwhelming experience.

Rafa takes a deep breath, after sipping on his coffee and goes into his LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING pose, before diving into an actual rant with lots of Spanish interlaced.

“Dios mio, Wolverine don’t deserve this. Spanish soap operas tratar a sus personajes (treat their characters) better. There were pictures and colours and pensé que era como Disney y habrá (and I thought it’s like Disney and it will have) good, positive messages and happy endings but no, no, no, todos mueren todo el tiempo (everyone dies all the time) and is miserable or to be honest both, dead and miserable la mayoría de las veces (most of the times),” Nick thinks that he can’t feel more like made of water inside. Water is good. Water is safe. At every word rapidly spoken by Rafa the same way he’s talking tennis strategies or boats Nick feels like he no longer has corporal form.

“Wolverine, dude? Let’s talk about Wade? Also you do realise all Marvel shit is technically Disney now?”

“Maybe,” Rafa does his shrug gesture, accompanied by his confused face and Nick has to bite on his fist to stop himself from making a sound that would most probably be a pathetic whimper of adoration. “Deadpool? Nah. No. The violence, the sex, the, how you say it, la angustia (angst) – not realistic,” there are gestures of definite negation coming from Rafa. He’s fully involved. Just like he is when they watch old matches and Rafa comments on the tricks and traps and strategies used or missed.

“And Wolverine’s entirely life story is not?” Nick snorts to himself, growing lighter and lighter but also expanding inside with warmth and completion and peace.

All fears of January forgotten.

He’s here and now.

And he believes.

  1. ** Approach To The Inmost Cave**

_The inmost cave may represent many things in the Hero's story such as an actual location in which lies a terrible danger or an inner conflict which up until now the Hero has not had to face. As the Hero approaches the cave he must make final preparations before taking that final leap into the great unknown. _  
  
At the threshold to the inmost cave the Hero may once again face some of the doubts and fears that first surfaced upon his call to adventure. He may need some time to reflect upon his journey and the treacherous road ahead in order to find the courage to continue. This brief respite helps the audience understand the magnitude of the ordeal that awaits the Hero and escalates the tension in anticipation of his ultimate test.

*

Stefanos is oblivious to the entire world but the ball flying with force in front of him and the racquet he’s holding like a brush and a hammer at the same time, when Nick manages to get on court he had chosen to train on.

Stefanos never trains on the open court. He needs his focus. Isolation. Of an artist, yes, but of a trade man too. He’s always combined both: art and hard work and there is no room for entertainment factor when he prepares himself.

They almost didn’t let Nick in. It’s been few months the last time he was on tour. He has his ID card, but tennis had always been about supernovas shining the brightest and all the rest disappearing into obscure dark of the space. And the last time he won here was few years ago so China had new idols now and he fell into oblivion. Or if he was remembered, it was only for his stunts, that no longer brought contemptuous smile to people’s face or disgust to others, but made them not trust him be a part of the professional tennis community, apparently.

Anxiety was bubbling under the surface but he kept it on the leash of focus and one step at the time training from Rafa.

He watches Stefanos from the top row, before he gets closer, training bag on his shoulder and a carton decorative box with Pokemon scattered in all shapes and forms all over it (nothing will ever bring the Pokemon down) in his hand.

First day he arrives, of course Stef is playing tennis. Hardening focus, sealing the resolve. Nick was on the phone with Matt what felt like the entire first day he came here, the noise inside his head pretty much unbearable. Then, he threw himself into mania of clothes shopping with Christos and Ash, to soothe the roaring buzz one piece of clothing at the time.

Then he skyped with Mom the entire afternoon to bake his first bougatsa. It took so much time and he discovered that maybe, just maybe, trying, with the emphasis on trying, to make things in the kitchen might be just the perfect remedy for central station of tumult inside him.

He hasn’t touched the racquet until today, when he packed it for hitting session with Matt. It felt slippery and awkward in his hand. Like his body forgot what to do with it. Or his mind tricked him into thinking that.

God. Stefanos looks weightless. He is one with the racquet. Moving like he’s soaring, even if the strength of his body is unmistakable. It’s been so long since Nick could face it, wrestle with it, feel grounded in purpose through it. Almost as much as he does when training with Rafa. Stefanos looks like he’s engaged in a match, going through strategies when hitting the wall with his wicked balls, his face picture of determination Nick always admired in him.

But Nick also found sexy.

He has light stubble and his hair is long again, wrapped in a messy bun, few loose locks slipping from the hair tie. Jesus. Nick’s hand clutches the surface of the box he’s holding onto like a life rope.

Stefanos is beautiful.

There’s a moment of pause Stef allows himself, going to his bag, to reach for water, when Nick says, as he got closer to the court, hoping his voice sounds solid enough.

“Hi, stranger. Whose ass were you kicking just now?”

The transformation on Stef’s face from a fierce warrior on court to a boy beaming with warmth is still a mystery to Nick. Maybe it’s what’s needed, maybe it’s healthy, maybe it’s about that balance. To have your on court persona and to protect the real you from all the pressure, challenges and struggles this sport brings.

Maybe that’s why he’s been failing all that time. Because he can’t make that distinction.

“Hey! Nick! God, I forgot what you look like!” Stef looks like he’s going to jump over the barrier to get to him. He can be so in control and reining emotions, channeling them with absolute purpose on court and then off it he’s an open book of earnest truth. Nick feels like he hasn’t felt the sun on his skin for ages until now. Stef’s there, by the edge of the podium, his face beaming, like he’s glowing, when he leans over it to… to do what? God. What are they even?

Stef’s hands are there, clutching the rail and Nick wants to touch, Nick wants to hold his hand, smell his hair and melt into him.

He wants to lean towards him and kiss laugh lines around his eyes, kiss his dimples. He never wants to stop kissing him.

What he does instead, at the assault of flutters and heat inside him (itchy buzz forgotten) is clutch to the box in his hands and steps from one feet to another like during end of the year school ceremony. To prevent himself from acting on instincts that tell him to reach for Stef and hold him (or onto him).

“And that’s bad, because…?” as always, when rush of feelings overwhelms him, he goes for sarcasm. Stef is damp, his hair clinging to his forehead. Nick battles the need to fix it with his fingers, to feel it. Remind himself the softness of it. Stef doesn’t stop smiling.

God. Nick wants so much.

“You look so good,” Stef’s eyes are trailing Nick’s face, sparkling with mirth and joy and Nick dares to say, longing. Mirroring Nick’s very own. The silence between them stretches, as Stefanos plainly admires Nick, the knuckles of his hands white, as he clutches to the railway, like maybe preventing himself from doing things too. God. They are stupid. “Are you back?” a loaded question. Another meaning to it. _Are you ready? Can you try? Are you staying_? Nick’s head echoes with thousand of options, even if Stefanos’ expression is a picture of calm reassurance.

“Someone needs to stop you from taking over completely, yeah?” 

“Cocky much?” Stefanos smirks but it’s more amusement and affection. “Wanna show me what you got, tough guy?” then he adds almost purring and Nick doesn’t want to expose himself with how rusty he might be, playing only guys back in Australia. And Rafa. And kids of course. But seeing Stefanos on court, brimming with raw energy, remembering what it means playing against him, fueled with purpose, knowing himself, wanting this like nothing more in his life is so very tempting.

“A true strategist keeps his game tricks to himself, Stef,” Nick opts for the first option, entirely not ready to confront this fortress of efficient, smart and graceful tennis Stefanos is. “Besides, I’m hitting with Reid in an hour.”

“So you’re keeping your game tricks to yourself but you came here to sneak on mine, is that it?” Stef’s joy is so infectious. Nick’s orbiting this heated star, leaning closer, to take a wisp of that familiar smell, itching to touch.

“Actually, I come bearing gifts,” and he lifts up the box, Stefanos seems to be noticing only now. Nick doesn’t know how it’s possible but Stef’s face widens with joy even more, even if the box itself is as tacky as it gets in China.

“You bought me a gift?”the incredulity lighting up Stef’s eyes into ambers reflecting soft summer sunset leaves Nick breathless for a moment. So many hours of frustration devoted to baking this thing is worth it. He might even become a full time engaged cook. 

“Not bought. I actually I made it,” maybe he flaunts his chest a bit or maybe not. “So, before you open it. I know you’re a sinner that sins and tells terrible lies how this is the most overrated food and other not true bullshit but I’m on the mission here and you haven’t tried bougatsa the way Mom makes it, so....” when he hands Stef the box their fingers brush and it’s all the cliché his Mom’s Harlequins wrote about when they used to steal them from her bookcase with Thanasi and wondered why people even fall in love, if they continue to describe it as being struck by lightning or having the electricity spread all over their bodies like, jesus, you may die from it, don’t you?

Stefanos opens the box and the smell of cinnamon, cheese and freshly baked dough makes Nick bless the quality of this particular food container, beneath the layers of Pokemon actually serving its purpose, surprise, surprise. The powdered sugar has melted a bit, granted, but the rest looks almost as good as the final effect did when Nill was pestering him: “Don’t raise my hopes up with grandchildren if you can’t deliver, son,” before he hanged up on her with grumpy: “Thanks and bye, Mom.”

“You made it?” Stef doesn’t even look like someone considering bougatsa an overrated food. He looks like Nick has just handed him a bright, shining star from the night’s sky over China.

“With these hands, dude,” he waves his hands as a silly demonstration, “Mom was coaching on Facetime, so I don’t think it’s gonna kill you. And maybe, just maybe it won’t even give you indigestion. But it will definitely change your mind and absolve you of all your sins you committed previously against this work of art,” Nick’s moving down the steps to get on court, where Stef is setting down on a bench, among neatly folded towel, bag on the ground and bottles of water lined up next to it in a perfect order.

Nick thinks of the state of his own bench during changeovers. An ache for those times resurfacing for a moment but he quenches it with amusement over differences between them.

“So you want to absolve me of my sins, Nick? That’s the agenda? You don’t want to get me fat and eliminate the competition for your great comeback?”

“Totally exposed. That’s my secret weapon. Always use secret recipes for bougatsa on your enemies.”

Stef breaks one piece of a pastry with his fingers. The rich layer of cream pours out and as he lifts his fingers to his mouth to taste it. Nick desperately tries not to stare, wondering what possessed him to do this to begin with as now he has to watch Stef lick on his own fingers with blissful content on his face, eyes fluttering and purrs coming from his throat.

“I take it, it’s not that bad,” Nick gulps, hoping it’s going to pass for him being hungry.

It does, so Stef does the most reasonable thing a man can do in the presence of a hungry person. “You have to help me eat my honour now, Nick.”

And he tears another piece of it but this time with the intention of hand feeding Nick.

Must be the Greek thing.

Stef looks expectant and innocent, like this is really only about sharing food together, somehow more conveniently from one hand. And hey, it could be this convenient and this normal, but when Nick bites into pastry held by Stef, the taste of it rich and sweet and settling with creamy essence on his tongue and in his throat with smooth, pleasant sensation, it’s anything but. Eating from his hands, as Stefanos’ mouth closes on the crumbs left on his own fingers to suck the sweetness dry, leaves Nick feeling hot and needy.

He thinks he’s staring, with lips parted as Stef swallows the food, hums his approval, his throat the most fascinating view in this place suddenly.

“Also, you know what they say about food. The way to the man’s heart is through his stomach?” so maybe not that innocent, considering the look Stef gives him is anything but. “So maybe it’s about seducing the enemy?” and now he even has the audacity to act so very cliché and lick his lips, like savouring the taste. Nick swallows on the same taste they have just shared.

“Do you want to be seduced, Stef?” Nick has always loved bougatsa, sometimes maybe even more than life, but right now he thinks nothing would probably compare to having that aftertaste of bougatsa from Stef’s mouth on his tongue.

“Maybe I already am?” Stef watches his lips with a heavy, heated gaze. Nick doesn’t have to guess. Doesn’t have to dare to assume anymore. Stef’s eyes mirror his want with pure intensity so Nick follows this gravity, leans closer, his hand slowly moving to Stef’s cheek (hoarseness of a stubble underneath excites him), his thumb on Stef’s bottom lip (just like he always dreamed of) to this mouth parting for him eagerly _Fuck._ The moist warmth of a sighed “naí” like a butterfly touch of a kiss as Stef’s hand closes on the material of his hoodie to bring him closer, as close as possible, makes Nick dizzy and then of course what happens is his phone rings with Matt’s ringtone (terrible midi version of _Advance Australia Fair_), because that’s how it works in important moments in life, yeah?

“Fuck,” Nick leans on Stef, their foreheads touching, the buzz inside his head follows, though, with thousands of doubts and regrets and booming, rebuking voice prevails, screaming about what is he doing, making his big tennis comeback and then acting like he always does, wanting to fuck away the insecurities with fellow tennis players like a shallow, broken asshole he is. Stef has that amazing life going on for him and Nick barges on it all to stain it with his fucked up mess, Jesus Christ. “I gotta, go, Stef.” Stef’s hands are on the back of his head, holding him in place, still close, like grounding him or shielding him from the tornado of emotions. He instinctively chases the touch, so fucking perched, he hasn’t eve realised how much.

“I’ll be seeing you around, yes?” Nick feels it more than he hears it. A question or a promise like a ghost of a kiss that never happened. There’s calm and patience in Stef’s eyes now, where raw want was just a moment ago. He’s not going to fuck up anything. Stef is strong and confident and in control. Stef won’t let him. More. Stef believes Nick won’t let himself. And Nick wants to prove him right and to silence the voice inside him once and for all.

His mouth leaves a mark of that promise on Stef’s forehead as he raises himself up, throws a bag across his shoulder, all casual, nonchalant gesture and then says, lightly and hopeful: “I’m making that comeback, aren’t I? So watch it, golden boy.”

*

Of course it isn’t that simple. He says he’s ready. He dares to believe (though Rafa says on the phone he never really said that, he never really said the words out loud, he always says: _I try_, instead). And then the reality clashes with the possibilities and there are only ashes left of the fire burning inside him.

The fact he had to qualify for Beijing, the suspension took away lots of points securing him (even if it was supposed to help him put other pieces together, and maybe it did) was enough of a discouraging slap. The fact he only got to the 3rd round, after one of the young German rising stars rolled over him with his Zverev inspired mercilessly hacking game made him feel like at the beginning of the road.

Like nothing changed.

Like he’s the same angry, broken boy, smashing his racquets, escaping to hate and rage, a boy screaming at the monsters inside him, pretending to be brave, but deep down scared and hiding under the bed from them.

“Everyone knows Asian tournaments are for youngsters to win their first titles and get their points when the elite is resting. And they are only prologue to AO, so chill the fuck down and focus on that, Nick,” Thanasi is resting back at home. His shoulder is sore again. He’s been mostly playing exhibition matches these days and doing so much work for the Foundation when Nick was preoccupied with trying (the operative word here) to whip himself back to shape. There were times Nick felt so guilty with Thanasi. whenever he came back home empty-handed or with another fine after another appalling display of mental weakness. Thanasi loves tennis. He enjoys it. The only demons he struggles with are inside his body, that continues to betray him. Nick despises all the media that would talk endlessly about him betraying the gift he’s been graced with by acting like an immature brat. But when he sees Thanasi after yet another disastrous tournament his best friend couldn’t even attend because he’s in the middle of rehabilitation he hears these words loud, demanding in his head and tastes them like ash on his tongue.

The ungratefulness, guilt and shame are real then.

Meanwhile, Thanasi has nothing but support and faith in him in return. Just like he does now.

“Except elite is here, bro. It’s not about playing some challenger in, no offence, Finland, where nobody cares about tennis and they won the tickets on the radio show and didn’t know what to do with this shit, because everyone in the family they wanted to get rid of this crap to already had arrangements or probably went like: who the fuck cares about tennis?” Nick spits the words at his phone at super speed rate absolutely betraying how much this affects him, even if he aims at sounding seemingly disinterested.

Thanasi is smiling his all-knowing smile: “Cool story, bro. Does it come with a sequel?” It’s not a discarding sarcasm. It’s empathy and affection. Because Thanasi knows exactly how much the insecurities and fears are tearing Nick apart and how much he feels helpless and frustrated against them.

“Fuck this. What’s the point? I’m back to square one. It doesn’t feel like I ever moved from this shitty place,” Nick is sipping the beer from a minibar in his room, bitterly celebrating his immediate return home soon.

“Or you don’t give yourself a chance to. You won 2 matches. You kept it together. The guys in the studio were swooning over your mature focus and shit. Seriously, they were like, no chill, bro.”

“Yeah, until I dropped out and they were like: unfollowed, unsubscribe, blocked. This one’s done,” Nick chuckles tartly, finishing up the bottle. Like a toast. Here’s to Nick Kyrgios and his never realised and forever wasted talent. Always the same with these guys. The kaleidoscope of stars shifts constantly and bring someone else onto the pedestal and they knock someone off from it the same day.

“Are you playing for them, Nick? Since the fuck when?” Thanasi states, not even asks, sharply and on point.

Nick never did. Nick never exactly knew who he plays for. It started with the story of a hero with a flaming sword. Then he played for Nana but she never got to see him out there, winning with Rafa, showing his endurance, showing his strength, showing his fighting spirit. And after that? There was meeting people, drinking with people, fucking people and having fun. There was being furious with Ash for wanting to change that. There was being angry at his family for looking at him with pity. There was disappointment, too. But then there was thrill and adrenaline when he held onto the racquet, on his good days, and felt so strong and daring. There was rush of emotions, heart beating wildly, fire inside him channelled into roars of courage, roars of victory, roars of fight. He wanted to be there. He loved to be there. And he never wanted to stop.

He still asks, a quiet murmur of a boy seeking attention. “Have you watched? Was I any good?” 

Or acceptance.

“I always watch your matches, dumbass. You’re my favourite tennis player. And honestly, it sucks not to see your favourite tennis player play tennis more often,” Thanasi smiles but it’s melancholic and Nick wonders when the fuck did they maybe, possibly, at least started to, grow up. Or when did he catch up with Thanasi with it.

“We know, not since yesterday, that you have a terrible taste, dude.”

“Yeah, I do. Seriously, though. No one’s got nothing on your serve, man. But that’s a given. But these rallies? You were always shutting the rallies down with ass on fire, yeah? Well, hello hello, all in the past. This time you were right in the centre of the game, mixing it up, involved and relentless. Like you can do this forever. That was amazing,” God. Nick’s soft inside. Thanasi has that earnest, bright smile, absolutely free of mockery and teasing and he talks about him like they used to talk about the legends. “It’s all Rafa, is it?’ he adds, always knowing the very core of Nick.

“I guess. I don’t know. I hope. I don’t wanna, you know, waste his time,” what he really wants to say is he wants to make Rafa proud. But it’s stupid and naive and childish and Rafa isn’t in this out of sentiments. Rafa does his job and expects Nick to do his. That’s all there is to it.

Even if he wishes for more.

“I miss you when you’re not on tour,” Nick continues, suddenly raw and open and genuine. And fuck. He does miss Thanasi, because Thanasi is his family and his safety and his stability. But Thanasi deserves to be on tour, winning things, playing his best tennis and being remembered as a spectacular athlete he is, too. “You should be a rockstar over here, man.”

“Yeah, well, I got the looks and you got the talent. Nothing we can do about it now but share our respective gifts as they were meant to be shared,” Nick snorts bitterly, because times of all-night parties and mornings-after when Thanasi woke up in the pile of warm bodies of all varieties had long time passed. And Nick every year struggles with the same patterns of failing to return.

That’s how they shared their respective gifts.

There’s a knock at the door of his hotel room.

“Don’t stuff yourself with sad burgers, bro!” Thanasi comments at Nick’s deduction that it’s probably a room service, even though he didn’t order one and whoops, as he stands up and feels lightness in his legs, he’s not entirely sure whether it’s a postmatch adrenaline leaving his body or too much postcelebratory or self-pitying beer.

“See you soon, loser,” they hang up and Nick trods to the door that reveals none other than Stefanos in his golden glory standing on the outside with that unreadable smile of his.

Fuck. Definitely too much self-pitying beer in his system. Nick is probably staring, registering the details, _stupidly overwhelmed_ by the details. Stef is wearing a pink vneck (revealing patches of gold skin, revealing _collarbones_) and a pair of white shorts that are somehow always shorter than they are on others (Nick suspects it’s a matter of Stef’s long, lean legs he’s currently assessing with hungry attention, particularly focusing on thighs, feeling absolved by the realisation he might be tipsy, therefore allowed to give in to longings and such). Stef’s cheeks are rosy, like he’s been running here (maybe he has, Nick feels light in the chest), his hair tied in a messy bun, making loose strands fall in soft disarray all over his face (_who the fuck allowed this?_ Nick clutches his hands, he wants to touch so much) and he’s holding a food container with the Avengers like they are juniors and Nick forgot his lunch.

“Hello, sexy,” Nick murmurs, low and hoarse (doing his best), but hey, entirely out of his control (false: or maybe the other way round, with subconsciousness pouring out of him in bulks), leaning over the doorstep, as if he wants to plant a greeting kiss on Stef’s smiling mouth.

Stef ducks gracefully, making Nick’s face collide with his cheek in an awkward sort of nuzzle or a pout or almost a kiss as he comments with that ambiguous tone, striking balance between sharp and sarcastic. “So you started the party without me, Nick.”

“You know me. It’s partying all the time for me, baby,” Nick leans backwards, making a room for Stef to get in, feeling pretended lightness in him evaporate or turn to bitterness from before, before he called Thanasi, before he felt he can pretend to try again.

And again.

And again.

“What are we celebrating, then?” Stef manovuers himself in between a pile of clothes, tennis equipment, boxes of computer games, shoes, and God knows what else, trying to reach the place in the room where a table is, a layer of chaos scattered on it too.

Nick doesn’t even have energy to feel embarrassed. Somehow he doubts Stef expected pristine perfect order in his abode. And Stef doesn’t act like he’s judging or is even remotely surprised.

“You tell me, Stef?” Nick indicates the box he came here with. Steve Rogers is looking at him from it with that righteous judgement written all over his square poster boy face. _Fuck this guy, to be honest._

“I’ve made mee goreng, nothing like your Mom’s recipe but hey, an attempt was made. Plus, I’m really happy you’re back, so,” running out of options (the chairs are also touched by the hurricane that is Nick’s mayhem fuelled by his feeling of absolute failure) Stef settles on Nick’s bed, the sight of which makes Nick gulp on the dryness of his throat, his hands clammy, itching to grab, to hold, to pull closer, closer, as close as possible. Jesus. Is he a growing up, a hormonal teenager? Or that drunk? Or both? “What about you?” Stef adds opening the box himself and unwrapping forks from a napkin, invitingly pointing with one at Nick.

“Ah, same old, same old. Burying all the chances before I even began? Wasting that vessel of talent I have been graced with? Another failed comeback? Whatever the media are calling it these days,” Nick saunters to the bed with casual ease, as if unbothered, and plops by Stefanos’ side, probably closer than the space requires to grab a fork from his hand, making sure their fingers brush along the way as he smirks triumphantly. 

Stef remains seemingly unphased, digging into the noodles and having large portion of it.

“Nah. They used to write about something else. It was always about a clown show, Nick. None of that in tonight’s press,” Stef is munching on the chicken perfectly innocent, throwing neutral glances at Nick, his legs crossed (_those thighs, sweet baby jesus_), as he’s comfy and belonging on Nick’s sheets. Just like Nick used to dream about. Or maybe still do. Or maybe never stops. Fuck. He sits there, perfect hair, smelling so nice, all pristine composure of a professional tennis player and his vague pep talks in between the bites of a chicken. He glided through his matches with effortless elegance of Federer, dedication to every point of Rafa and Stef’s unique, competitive edge. Nick watched. Of course he did. He was tempted to mingle with the crowd and watch him live, but didn’t want to give more reasons for the press to already blow things out of proportion.

Even if he didn’t touch any of the stories later on, anyway.

Nick watched and pined, after what Stef had, after who Stef was. Committed pillar of strength and skills. Playing the game like he used to at NextGen finals and loving the game all the same.

“You read press about me, Stef?” Nick is leaning on his elbow, half lying on the bed close to Stef, so that he can nudge his bare knees with his finger, playfully. Stef is warm and soft and addictive to touch. Nick keeps his hands busy with the food instead, hit by the perfect balance of tastes and spices, not entirely like Mom’s, but rich and interesting and close enough. The content spreading inside him has nothing to do with the meal itself, though.

“Maybe. It’s out there with all the rest, after all,” Stef is a picture of composure. The same way he is on court. Nick wants to tear it and reveal that passion in him. Reveal that wildly beating heart. He wants to know if Stef watched him. He wants to know what Stef felt when watching him. They were in a draw together. They could have played against each other. But he fucked this up, too. Nick wants to know if Stef’s disappointed, angry, upset or not caring at all.

He wants to see Stef fall to pieces. No longer pristine. Untouched. But marked by Nick everywhere.

He eats hastily, to muffle a groan rising in his chest.

“Who cares what they write. I lost. That’s the gist. I lost, You won. We don’t meet on court. I won’t be lifting any trophies. I’m going home and the question keeps coming back, _what the fuck am I doing even_?” he spills the words with mouth full to make it look like he doesn’t care. Like he talks about boring routine that does not affect him anymore. Never has. _Pft. As if._

Stef puts the fork on the bedside table. He sets it on the pile of comics and unidentified things lying there in chaos. And then he reaches out for Nick’s hand lying on the surface of the bed. He closes his palm over it in the warm cocoon of reassurance, making Nick almost choke on his food. Making Nick know for sure how very much affected he is. And how it’s pointless to pretend otherwise.

“You say you lost your match. I say you played a match, got 2 tie breaks and fought for each ball like it matters. You say we don’t meet on court, I say – good things come to those who wait. You say you’re going home. No, Nick. You’re running away,” Nick snaps the hand away from Stefanos’ gentle grip, raises himself up and turns his back to him with a murmured: “Fuck this.”

Stef puts the empty box with the Avengers away, making it join the pile of clutter and preservers, not touching Nick, but talking.

“You run away, but then you come back. Why?”

“Leave it alone, Stef,” Nick’s back is a firm, broad shape of stiff denial.

Stef is lifting himself up from the bed. Nick feels the dip of it and the warm closeness his body emitted disappears too (hopefully soaks up into the sheets, Nick wants to smell it, feel it later on). He wants to say: no. _Please. Stay_. He wants to say: _leave me alone, please_. He wants to say so many things but he sulks in cold silence, to Stef talking as he sets himself to leave. As ordered.

“They said you’re so brave. They said you’re still so daring. The most outrageous player on court. And you’re running away, now.”

Nick stands up rapidly to look at Stefanos standing close by the door but with a challenge on his face. Like he wants this confrontation. “Shut up, Stef. You don’t know anything, man,” he clenches his fist, suddenly sober and livid. Or scared and frustrated. Or both. The storm inside him wheezes to be released. “You don’t know. You have no clue,” he mumbles over and over again.

“Why do you come back, Nick?” Stefanos is poking and probing, like nudging this wild creature. This is what he does on court too. He’s the brave one. He’s the outrageous one. Nick feels inadequate. This boy didn’t just suppress him. He was always one step ahead. With his sharp mind, undisturbed focus, endurance and skills. Nick brims with this violent need to bring him down. To his level, maybe? To rattle the composure. To see him in pieces.

_His._

He paces, fuming and fighting this turmoil inside, as he mutters to himself, like he often used to do during changeovers. That terrified boy talking the fear away, wanting someone to hear it out. Wanting someone to listen. “You don’t know, Stef. You go out there, all mister poker face, like it’s hard? You play your game, you do your thing. And you give these pep talks, like you know everything, like you understand. You win and you win and it’s fucking effortless. You don’t know.”

Stefanos looks as stoic as ever. Nick can’t touch him, because Stefanos has always been made of steel. This will of a fighter. This strength of a warrior knowing himself, fighting for it. Nick is being unfair. Nick is being cruel. Stefanos is all about hard work and effort. He earned every single victory in his career and before he got there, he had struggled a lot too. His faith in himself is rooted in all of this. Rooted deep. You can’t tear it with weak whimpers of an insecure boy. Still, Nick shakes in need even more.

He wants to. Wants to see it crack. He wants to leaves his marks all over Stefanos.

Envious and raw.

“Why do you come back?” Stef persists and Nick strides towards him, aching and furious and yearning and all of this at once.

“Shut up”

“Why do you come back, Nick?”

“Leave it, Stef.”

Nick is right in Stef’s personal space and Stef doesn’t budge. Steel. And focus. Like on court. And Nick wants to win the game. Nick wants to break him. Nick wants to claim this hero of strength (to make it his own, to make _him_ his own). “Why?” Stef is relentless.

And Nick says it so close to his face Stef probably feels the heated growl, rather than hears it. “Because I don’t have anything else. Tennis is the only thing I know,” it sounds bitter, like you talk about routine binding you, but it sounds defining too, like you talk about something familiar and safe.

“Sounds like a commitment. Like you would have talked about marriage,” Stef is smiling or smirking or both and Nick feels his entire skin itching to reach out for him and have, have, have, all the control. All his perfect answers, and being mature, and knowing. Nick wants to rob him off it, steal it but Nick wants to dive into it and feel complete and serene like he did under water back home.

“Why did you come here, Stef?” he rattles the steely tower of composure.

“Do you want me to leave?” but Stef is unbreakable. Just like he is on court. Nick crowds him against the door, like he would with his massive service game or overwhelmingly strong forehands. Stef lets him (just like he sometimes lets himself fall into a tennis trap) but the way he arches his body to make them meet in just the right angles makes Nick almost weak with need (just like Stef turns the game against you, with agility and adaptability).

“No. I want you to stay,” a boy making demands or a man stating his needs. He sounds somewhere in between and Stef’s smirk confirms it and makes the growl shape into words he can’t help but spill to his ear with warm breath of someone angry but perched. “I want you, Stefanos.”

He doesn’t only mean, now, here, always, every time. He means to be like him, too.

The way Stefanos turns his head, exposes himself to Nick for the taking, and a dare or a confession that follows. “ Here I am, Nick,” makes the tame break violently and Nick’s mouth meets skin of Stef’s earlobe and his cheek and finally lips already open and waiting for him to dare to take. (Like a match. Like a first game. _Fifteen-all_).

So he does. Brave. Outrageous.

He takes.

They kiss without preamble. Like it was a long time coming. Because it was. Open-mouthed, wet kisses, as Nick’s hands travel to Stefanos’ hips to pull him against him. To make him feel everything. Stef whimpers and the sound is rich inside Nick’s mouth as he laps on it with his tongue like it’s ambrosia. Stef’s fingers are on the back of Nick’s head, digging into his nape, scratching, to which Nick responds with a deep rumble of satisfaction and arching of his body sinking more into warmth and growing hardness of Stef’s. (_thirty-all_). His hands try to be everywhere. He roams from the small of Stef’s back to his thighs, wanting to wrap him more around himself, parting Stef’s legs with his thigh to soak up the warmth, the hardness of his more. It’s clumsy and desperate, the way they come together like that, while still kissing, teeth clashing and nose bumping, because the need is so big.

Stef bites his lip, pulls it in between his teeth with a chuckling purr. Nick leans his forehead against him in response, breathing hard and smiling, like intoxicated. His hands landed on Stef’s ass (God, he thinks he doesn’t need Stef to touch him and he’s going to come, from the feel of the firmness and heat and round shapes fitting to his palm so well) as they pause, taking in breaths from the minimal space between them. Stef exhales, humming. “Mhmmm, always wanted to do that.”

Nick pulls back only slightly to look at Stef’s face so close to his. His eyes are heavy-lidded and he watches Nick’s mouth greedily. One of Stef’s hands ended up under Nick’s t-shirt, grazing the stomach and the other cradles Nick’s cheek and a finger now traces the mark left by Stef’s teeth. As he licks his own lips, tasting Nick everywhere, wanting to taste more, more, more. He looks like Nick just claimed him with aces and Stef is ready for a second game, to chase him, to show him, to have his own. Nick is not going to let him, though. Stef has that on court. Not here. Oh, no, not here.

“Do you trust me?” Nick asks, following Stef’s finger with his teeth playfully. “Cos there are many things that I always wanted to do to you, too.” Nick nuzzles Stef’s face, inhaling, and gorging on the feel and smell of him, the want inside him ripe, as Stef’s hands reach for his face, suddenly, gentle and adoring. Stef looks into his eyes, saying, firm and absolute.

“Yes, Nick. I trust you,” like he talks about something else. Like he talks about believing in Nick, getting there, putting pieces together, becoming and lasting.

For years to come.

Something inside Nick swells with warmth. And he brushes Stef’s lips with his, tender and adoring. A butterfly kiss. A chaste kiss resembling breathing from each other’s mouths together.

They linger like that with foreheads touching and then Nick pecks Stef’s nose with a plea. “Turn around for me, Stef.”

Stef’s stubborn. He’s a fighter. So the way he does it, right away, with anticipation almost, fills Nick up with surging power. Like breaking his service game. _You’re mine, now. You’re not running away from that hold I have of you._

Nick settles behind him, close enough for Stef to feel him, feel him _affected_, and to Nick’s purring satisfaction, seeks the contact with the way his body instinctively bucks towards Nick’s. Nick admires for a moment. One of his hand on Stef’s hip, the other trailing upwards and downwards Stef’s spine, to see him respond, to feel shiver following under his skin. Stef’s hair is still tied with a band and Nick reaches for it, to pull and let thick, golden locks fall in a disarray. And then he dives, like he used to dive into the ocean, to find peace and wholeness. He buries his face in the crown of locks that smell of the ocean, sweet fruit, the wind and everything he associates with home. With safe. With a place where he knows himself the most. He inhales, mouths the strands of hair, pulling Stef closer, letting them move slowly, rocking their bodies. Stef is a bow for Nick to play on. He bends backward, letting Nick worship him, which Nick does with open mouth kisses on Stef’s nape, behind his earlobe and back to that sea of golden strands full of a familiar aroma.

“You smell like home,” Nick whispers hoarsely. Like he’s in pain. Wrecked. Pulling Stef’s earlobe in between his teeth, caressing it with his tongue, his hands grasping Stef’s hips now to set the pace of their rhythm. Stef’s broken and his and Nick feels infinite. His hands are clasped on the door and his legs part eagerly, as he mumbles series of words in Greek, thrusting against Nick shamelessly.

Fuck. Nick’s not going to last and he has things to do. Layers to peel. “Lift up your arms, Stefanos,” Nick’s voice breaks over the bile of lust in his throat. He’s perched. He wants. Wants so much. And Stefanos is a clay to mould in his arms, doing exactly what Nick says with pliant willingness. _Jesus._

Nick lifts up the hem of his shirt, his fingers caressing skin before he pulls it up and discards it on the floor. God. It’s like having the entire feast of delicacies to consume in front of you. The muscles on Stef’s naked back are flexing, as he leans against the door on his hands, inviting Nick to devour. The skin is peppered with freckles and Nick tries to count them with his tongue and his lips. Like tasting the sunlight on this honey-colour skin. As he drinks on this skin, lower and lower, he goes to his knees, to Stefanos commenting.

“So how come you always end up kneeling for me, Nick?” he sounds wrecked, too. Nick noses the small of his back and then leaves open mouthed kisses on his buttocks through the material of his tight shorts.

“Hmm, like you didn’t have people kneel for that ass before. You could totally start a cult with it,” and then he teases the taunt surface with his teeth, making Stef’s chuckles turn to whimpers. _Good._ “And I intend to have you right here with me, on the floor, soon.”

“Cocky much,” Stef smirks down on him (like for a moment they might be back to deuce on Stef’s service game), like the image of Nick on his knees for him like that puts the ball on his side of the court, as he’s fully in control. Nick’s on a mission to break and to claim, though, so not for long.

“Yes, cocky much,” and Nick reaches upfront for Stef’s hardness, grinning with his mouth still adoring his backside at Stef bending like snapped in two, so easy, so his. Greek chanting returns. “So sensitive,” Nick hums in a sing song voice, now slipping the shorts slowly down, revealing bits of skin, more skin for the taking. The way Stef’s responsive makes Nick wonder how often does he have sex. That regime of training his father puts him though. Stef’s devotion to the game. Tennis filling up his life to the brink. Does he have time for it? How many people got to see him like this. Taste him like this. Streak of possessive hunger stirs in Nick, making him want to go that extra mile, leave all the more marks on this skin. Crawl so deep underneath it so that Stef would never bend like that for anyone. So that Stef would never be anyone else’s but his.

So this is what he does. Briefs follow Stef’s white shorts as he’s willingly stepping out of both, standing gloriously naked for Nick to have. Lean, long legs, muscled thighs, perfectly round buttocks and his back flexing in anticipation. Nick’s mouth waters. He’s still able to form words, which he does, his hands wandering from Stef’s ankles to his calves. “Fuck, Stef. You’re gorgeous,” Nick sounds like a devotee, failing to return that ball, bringing them back to deuce. He’s a worshipper now and he thinks he would do everything for Stef.

“You do realise, you’re talking to my ass, Nick,” Stef laughs and Nick responds in earnest, puffing warm breaths of air all over Stef’s bare skin and Stef is clay in his hands again, arching, with silent but insisting, “please”.

Nick kneads the taunt skin with his hands and gets down to worship. Mouthing, kissing, and grazing teeth, wanting to leave the marks, like he promised. The marks of: _no one got so deep. No one had you like this. No one can. No one will_. And so he does them justice. He gets as deep, as intimate as it’s possible and Stefanos snaps in half again, sounding as wrecked as Nick feels, digging his fingers into Stef’s hipbones, lapping on Stef like needing the taste of him to live. Leaving more marks. Stef is biting on his fist, muffling the incomprehensible pleas spilling from his mouth.

“Let me hear you, Stef,” and Nick moves one of his hands clutching Stef’s hips to pull on his cock and to feel how hard and wet he is. All his doing. He moans loud at that, his teeth closing on Stef’s skin once more, feeling of possessiveness burning him inside, demanding to be released. He has Stefanos tremble under his hands for more of him. It’s a dizzying feeling. They moved from deuce to Nick’s advantage, as Stef’s voice cries Nick’s name along with curses and pleas of _yesmorefucknickplease_.

The game’s still not Nick’s. Stefanos is still standing. Even if his knees buck and he’s rocking between Nick’s mouth and Nick’s hand, wet, yielding and delicious. Nick turns him over, with one swift move of his hand (that clay he’s moulding, a demiurge and his perfect statue) and before Stefanos realises what’s going on, Nick lifts one of his legs to put it onto his shoulder and then moves with his mouth and his teeth from the inside of his thigh, straight to Stef’s cock. And he swallows the length of him, humming at the feeling of wetness he caused. Stef’s hand clutches onto the back of Nick’s head, scratching, digging fingers, making Nick arch to that like a cat. The rally for the game prolongs. None of them is willing to let go. Stef’s bending and losing balance and his cries sound like sobs now. But Nick’s so filled with sensations too and Stef’s now pulling at his ears and opening his legs even wider, so vulnerable and eager and his and _fuck_. They’re not going to make it and there are layers to peel. More layers. Until he has Stefanos absolutely ruined.

Claimed.

So he sucks deeper, swallows him more with fingers trailing to Stef’s ass, slipping inside him, where he’s heated and loose and ready for Nick until Stef’s gliding down the wall onto the ground, exactly where Nick wants him.

He pushes Nick away for millimetres, like he’s asking, _please, stop touching me, I need to remember how to breathe_, but not willing to let go too far. He releases shaky breaths, his hands still on Nick’s nape. He’s ended up half sitting on his lap, naked and debauched: flushed red and sweaty. His mouth shine pink, his hair sticks to his neck and his cheeks and his eyes glisten with tears of an effort not to give in, not yet. Nick’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life. He gathers a handful of Stefanos more onto himself, kissing droplets of sweat from his naked chest, teasing his nipples with his teeth, holding him close, wet and warm and his. _Fuck._

“See, I told you, I’m taking you down with me, Stef,” he mouths to the crook of his neck, leaving wet trail with his tongue behind Stef’s earlobe. _First set, Kyrgios_. Stef is trembling in his arms, seemingly frail and giving in.

But Stef is a fighter. Always has been. So he starts rubbing himself all over Nick, now. Rubbing his ass in an infuriating, circling manner, right against the wet spot of Nick’s shorts. “You’re overdressed,” Stef purrs to his mouth, kissing the corner of it, then his nose, then his cheeks, then his eyelids. All the while rocking against Nick with intent, his strong, taunt body delicious to hold and to feel. The gravity makes Nick’s hands land on Stef’s butt, to encourage him, to pull him closer. To still set the pace of another game they’re about to start. 

“And you still didn’t come,” he sounds like he’s straining. He does. Stef is everywhere, the feel of wet and warm on his body is Stef, the smell of the ocean in his nostrils is Stef. Stef engulfs him with his body and his presence and Nick is losing the ball.

Nick does not mind.

“I will, with you inside me,” Stef smiles warmly, like he’s sharing a cosy piece of trivia. Stef knows the game perfectly well and even if he looks broken he’s going to take that ball from you and dominate the court again. Like he does Nick now, making him groan and twitch and buck helplessly under Stef’s strong thighs, wrapped around him like poison ivy. “With you fucking me, Nick,” warm smile turns to heated intent as he says it with teeth to Nick’s ear, all moist breath of a promise or a demand or both.

Nick has nothing else to say to that but a meek whimper, Stef swallows from his open mouth eagerly with teasing licks and grazes of his teeth. “But first thing’s first. You’re overdressed, darling,” this is a typical match with Stef on court. They may start with the opponent’s advantage but Stef will claim his position of power anyway, relentless, passionate. Like a force of nature and the opponent will end up claimed and at his mercy, inevitably. Just like Nick is now, with Stef wrapped around him, still moving lazily, nosing his face and releasing warm hums of encouragement. Everything feels like Stef. Everything smells like Stef and Nick puts it down to his sex stamina that he’s still hard, even if weeping for Stef by this point.

Stef’s hands reach for his Tshirt and that’s where Nick comes back from this high to wrap his fingers around them in a stalling manner. “I’m ... You know my cardio is bad because I don’t actually train that much. Like hoops and tennis is all there is to it. And like we’re also on the floor, doesn’t it bother you? Mister I don’t have shoes to play Cinderella?” Nick tries to be distracting, with his charming, babbling voice and his teasing comments but it doesn’t work with Stef. It never did.

“Are you ashamed of something, Nick? Because, yes, I, for example, am very bothered but I couldn’t give less of a fuck that we’re on the floor and more about that you’re not inside me fucking into me like there’s no tomorrow, to be honest. Just a thought, you know. We can discuss it though, if you want,” Stef stops wriggling on Nick’s lap, with all the intention of maybe standing up and leaving them like that. Very fucking hot and bothered to which Nick pulls him closer, like pleading_, no, don’t leave, don’t ever leave_ and practically sighing to his mouth. “Yes, sir.” The way Stef twitches against his belly and almost mewls tells him he’s pulling all the right strings.

Nick never had any complexes regarding his body. He thinned up soon enough. Was always tall, hunching and lanky. No one would ever say he used to be fat. And yet, seeing Stef in all his glory, a confirmation of his body being his tool in a battle on court, his sharpened in blood and sweat and will to win instrument of a warrior, of a winner, of tennis number one. There is a shame of being inadequate in him, knocking for attention. There is respect and awe for Stef that leaves him feeling awkward and physically degraded. And maybe there is also realisation of intimacy of this moment, of having Stef naked and warm and wet and wanting him, even though he saw Nick fail over and over again, even if there was a distance between them as tennis players and people that might be unbridgeable, of having Stef look at him with heat but softness of someone who might be in love. Nick fucked so many people in his life, often in the dark corners of the dance clubs, in the hotel rooms, quick and fast and leaving soon after, but the last time someone looked at him like that, with skin meeting skin, was with Ajla. And this is a lot to acknowledge.

That he might be in love with Stef. That he_ is_ in love with Stef.

He takes the shirt off himself. Brave and open and ready. Like a confession. _I’m yours. Fuck, I don’t know when it happened, but I’m yours. _And Stef’s entire face lights up like with a new equipment he ordered, or an ice cream, or his family cheering for him after the point won. Or now, for Nick, showing himself, letting Stef in entirely. Saying, _I’m yours_, with his body.

Stef starts adoring this gift he’s been given. His hands caress all the skin available, joined by his mouth and his tongue. He pushes Nick gently on the floor and slides down Nick’s body for further exploration. He’s gentle, but impatient. He’s thorough and everywhere and Nick’s body yearns for more of it with the way it seeks the touch, with the way the words shaping around Stef’s name and need for more leave his mouth with moans and sighs.

“Nick, you’re beautiful,” Stef mouths to his stomach, pulling on softness there with his teeth, with reverence but hunger too. He slips Nick’s shorts off, Nick is so full of sensations he doesn’t even rebuke himself for participating so eagerly in the process and lifting his body easily so that their skins could finally meet and merge and become. Stef doesn’t make them wait any longer. He’s taking Nick into his mouth and feasting on him enthusiastically, his tongue flattening on the entire length, the sounds obscene and wet and fuck, like the essence of Nick is so delicious and Stef can’t get enough of it.

“Setstefstefsteffuckfuckfuck, please, stop,” Nick’s hand clutches on Stef’s hair, arching even more to the feel of softness in between his fingers, like an anchor but also making him slip deeper into overwhelming pleasure. Nick watches Stef tear himself away reluctantly, with eyes closed and licking on his mouth like he’s been distracted from his favourite activity. The image of this, lips wet, with Nick, fuck, with him, Stef tastes the bids of his precum like savouring an aftertaste, sweaty strands sticking to his cheeks as he breathes out, puffing warm breath all over Nick’s belly, raising goose bumps there. “Fuck, Stef. You said something about me fucking you. Well, it’s not gonna happen, if you keep doing that,” Nick sounds like he’s in pain. He is. But it’s a good kind of pain. An ache fulfilled. “There’s a condom somewhere here, uhm ....” Nick tries to look around from the floor he’s been plastered to by Stef’s busy hands. The mess is incredible and there’s no way he’s finding anything here or probably moving from this spot at all, with Stef breathing out to his skin with warm chuckles.

“I said, I trust you, Nick,” Stef moves, expression lazy and content. Like he’s drunk. On Nick’s taste. On Nick alone. He strands Nick now, back to wrapped around him, tight and heated and wet and ready.

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Nick tucks the hair strand falling loosely from Stef’s face behind his ear, as Stef leans forward, getting himself comfortable, like he already belongs there, dominating Nick but grounding Nick. There’s trepidation of shame in this gesture. Nick used to sleep around a lot. Nick was very casual about sex, after and even during Ajla. Even if lately it did change. Even if lately tennis started to expand, take over and become the very axis of his world.

Stef kisses the palm of his hand that stayed on his cheek, caressing it (maybe beseeching him to stop, while they still can, Nick is a loser, Nick’s body is a wasteland of opportunities, Nick’s marked by his casual meaningless hook-ups, like he’s stained). But Stef’s eyes show none of it. They are shining with acceptance and want. His body’s been singing about wanting Nick, too.

So maybe it’s really about time to _believe_.

In this.

In them.

And in a broader sense, too.

“Have you been sleeping around latey, Nick?” Stef then proceeds to take Nick’s palm to his mouth and starts sucking on his fingers, like he did on his cock, like he’s thirsty for that taste, like he’s thirsty for Nick like nothing else in his life. There’s mirth in his eyes, reminding Nick of the gleeful triumph he sometimes wears when knowing he broke the opponent. When knowing the opponent is his.

Nick’s other hand digs into Stef’s thigh, renewing the marks he’s left there few minutes before. Hoping they will stay. For a while. Or for always. So that he could always see how his hand fits there. So that he could think Stef is his, too, just as much as Nick is Stef’s. He arches his body, wet skin meets wet skin and Nick’s hardness catches on the rim of Stef’s opening making them both cry for more. “Fuck, no. I haven’t, Stef.”

“Been pining after me, haven’t you?” he chuckles and leads Nick’s wetted fingers behind himself. When Nick feels how open and wet Stef is for him he thinks he’s going to be coming just from this. He bucks instinctively, letting Stef know how much ready he is to have all of this from Stef as his fingers disappear deeper for Stef to clench around him eagerly in response. Nick’s other hand travels to Stef’s cock but Stef swats it away. “No. I’m not coming, until you’re inside me. Deep. As deep as possible, Nick,” setting the pace, just like when he’s dominating the court, fuck. And so Stef reaches behind himself, for Nick, to guide him inside himself, into this inviting, heated looseness. He sinks deeper or Stef pulls him in or both, they are equals on court, they always have been, they are both in it completely, devoted,.

Nick’s been engulfed by Stef, now, he’s absolutely merged with him. There is no telling where he ends and Stef begins. There’s serenity spreading inside him, like when he dives under water and feels stillness of it, comforting silence. There’s familiarity and safety and home about the way they are joined like this.

“Stef,” Nick sobs the name like a prayer. A prayer to keep this peaceful stillness of theirs but the heat inside him builds, at tightness of Stef around him, so hot, so good. And Stef is moving, moving them both to the release, hands on Nick’s chest and his thighs enveloping Nick, rocking around Nick with slowly building pace. Nick’s hand go to the marks he left on Stef’s hips, then behind to his ass, to tattoo his presence there, too. “Stef,” he repeats, a different shade of sob now, a plea now for this to never stop. Stef is everywhere and Nick never knew himself more than he does now. The storm is building, of want, of release but he never felt more placid and more belonging.

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” Stef’s voice breaks on the endearment, leaning forward now, changing the angle, making Nick sink even deeper, as they both gasp at each other’s open mouth. And Stef is there (his face in Nick’s focus, the only thing there, his entire world, like before, like an anchor, grounding him) to shower Nick’s face with kisses - butterfly touches of his mouth, adoring Nick’s cheekbones, the corner of his lips, the laugh lines around his eyes. Nick’s not sure if the wetness on his face is sweat or tears or both.

Fuck. Suddenly, the peace inside him trembles with anxiety, with fear of being exposed and he moves to roll them over, to push Stef to the floor, grabbing his thighs, wrapping him tightly around himself and plunge deep, in an almost violent motion. To fuck Stef like he asked him for before. To hide himself in the crook of his neck with his face like an open book now, betraying everything. 

But Stef finds him there. Stef did find him before. Stef always knew where to come back to his life and Stef believed. He caresses his cheeks with his palms, eyes peering straight to his soul, to find him there, to see him and to still want. “Don’t hide from me, Nick. I want to see you,” Stef sounds so soft and reassuring. Talking about the moment but talking about their life in general too. Nick can’t look away. Doesn’t want to. The safety of Stef’s eyes guides him back from that flare of fear or panic. And then Stef adds, hot and wet to Nick’s ear, “I want to see you when you come inside me.”

And Nick does, moaning shakily to Stef’s mouth, catching air from it, and lost in Stef’s eyes till the last spasm of his body. Stef follows the moment Nick chants his name in a wrecked whisper of a devotee almost to every inch of skin available.

And then, there’s stillness and peace and wholeness, about the way they lie on the floor, wrapped around each other, still joined so close, so tight, sticky, wet and gross but Nick doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to move from inside Stef where he’s safe and knows himself and feels like he believes, like he finally can.

@

It’s safe. It’s warm. It’s silent. Like it is in the water. Under the surface. Where he used to go to find this peace, to find himself. The stillness is absolute. Serenity inside his head, too. Stef is running his hands in playful circles on his sweaty back, catching the skin with his nails pleasantly, humming a melody to the top of Nick’s head. Nick lies plastered all over Stef, every inch of their skin touching, like they are merged. Like they were made for each other like that. The thought flares inside his head for a moment. An intense thought full of belonging, full of love? _Jesus Christ._

“Uhm, remember when you mentioned the fact we’re on the floor and it’s kinda uncomfortable. There might be a point to it, baby,” Stef mouths to his forehead, his hands still busy, playing with short, spiky strands of Nick’s hair. The thought in Nick melts into pleasant warmth settling at the very core of his chest.

“Why do you call me that?” Nick tries to tear himself away from this warmth and safety and home, home, home in Stef’s arms. They both wince at the loss of connection, even if it’s sticky and gross, as they half sit now. There’s very sudden emptiness about Nick not being inside Stef anymore.

“Because I can. Because I want to. Don’t you like it, _baby_?” Stef nudges Nick’s thigh, then his side and his stomach to which Nick jerks away but giggling and trying to add with full force of his grumpy tone.

“It’s cheesy, man,” as if he’s convincing anyone.

“Okay. I’m gonna call you “bro”, then, _bro_,” Stef showers his face with sound kisses and they are both laughing now, while still touching, like they can’t stop touching each other, like they don’t ever want to. They are wet and sticky and yet they continue to tickle each other on the floor now. Nick feels the warmth inside him grow into a ripe bubble of softness. _Who’s cheesy now?_

“Come on, princess, we’re gross and stinky, time for a bath,” and Nick grabs Stef by the waist and lifting him up, he puts him over the shoulder like he weighs nothing to Stef’s giggly protests that sound as utterly unconvincing as Nick’s mocking the pet names.

“And whose fault is that, bro,” Stef sniggers the ‘bro’ out while pretending to fight Nick, who, in turn, is leaving soft pecks all over Stef’s hip, strong arm securing him by the butt (which he doesn’t refrain himself from petting affectionately) as he’s carrying him straight to the bathroom.

“Yep, the headlines should be how I ruined number one of tennis. Do you feel ruined enough, Stefanos? Or should I try harder?” now he’s nibbling on skin on his hip to Stef wriggling his legs way too eagerly, his snorts sounding more like sighs of approval.

Stef smells like Nick. There are still traces of Nick inside him. His fingers and teeth left their marks. Nick marches proudly with Stef pliant across his shoulder.

_His. _

_Game, set, match, Kyrgios. _

@

It takes them a while to fill up the bath and actually get inside. They are very much distracted and can’t stop touching each other. Stef steals one of the spare toothbrushes to join Nick by the washbasin but Nick nudges him and snorts and then tickles him some more, as they both try to brush their teeth and they end up sputtering the paste everywhere in a fit of giggles. Then Nick pours every available shower gel and bath salts content into the water like he’s a master chef preparing a genius meal to which Stef splatters him with water, shaking his head in an affection and muttering things in Greek, Nick suspects are equivalents of an idiot and a clown, maybe.

Then there’s kissing. A lot of kissing. Nick says he changed his mind and doesn’t want Stef to get inside and wash himself off Nick.

“Don’t be gross, eugh,” Stef punches him playfully, still locked in Nick’s arms by the edge of the bath.

“It’s hot that I’m still inside you, Stef, and you know it,” Nick smooches his face some more and then glances downwards to add, with a smirk. “Some part of you definitely thinks so.”

“I’m a guy. That part is always interested. It doesn’t count,” Stef states matter-of-factly.

“Liar,” Nick purrs to Stef’s ear, pulling him closer. “You want me, Stef and think about us going at it all night long, hmm,” he sounds hoarse and eager until Stef literally pushes him into the bath so that Nick ends up splashing the water all over the place and coughing out giggly. “Always knew you’re the asshole one, Stef.”

@

They sit facing each other, long legs tangled and wrapped, to keep them close, like any distance between them might be too much. Nick is washing Stef’s hair with attentiveness, mostly basking in the opportunity to touch the softest strands and hear him snigger warmly whenever foam goes to his eyes.

“It itches!”

“Ohhhh, little baby Stef, it’s gonna be all over soon,” Nick gurgles mockingly, his face hurts from smiling. God. It feels like they’ve been living together. Like they’ve been doing it for so long. Occupying each other’s space so well, belonging right where they should. Nick thinks about doing this every night, waking up like that every morning, to Stef’s face, on their pillow, close, grounding image of serenity. And it doesn’t feel suffocating. It feels right. Like they should be. Like it was meant to be or some crap.

“That’s creepy but also say that again,” Stef pretends to be wriggling away from Nick’s fussing attention but there’s no resolve in it. He eventually leans to the touch, with eyes blissfully closed, and seeks this like a cat seeking to be petted.

“Little baby, Stef?” Nick imitates the gurgling child’s talk with an amused expression.

“You’re so stupid, Nick,” Stef splashes some more water in Nick’s direction.

“Baby,” Nick repeats, all seriousness now, getting himself closer to Stef, to nuzzle his nose, to touch his forehead with his own, intimate stillness to it now.

Because it can’t last, can it? He’s still not ready to be back. Stef’s life is filled with tennis and purpose. Nick’s life is filled with waiting and fear. Waiting for himself to finally do not try. Waiting for himself to play tennis not plan to.

“Again,” Stef whispers, a plea, not an order. Like he knows. That he must cherish this, keep this, and hold this moment dear for they may not have another one for a long time.

“Baby,” Nick’s eyes are closed, to savour Stef’s presence even more, his smell, his warmth, to tattoo this all inside his heart like a talisman of strength to feed his frail belief.

“Wow, we are ridiculous,” Stef tries to go for a light tone as Nick goes back to massaging his hair to rinse the shampoo of it. “We’re so cheesy, man,” Stef makes a terrible attempt at an Aussie accent, wrenching a snort or two from Nick.

“You would make a terrible Aussie, Stef.”

“At least I could see you more,” Stef blurts out, instantly regretting it, judging from the wince on his face. Some things you don’t say out loud with Nick, because he’s a wild creature that will rush away from the smallest snap of a twig like it’s a deafening sound of a bullet.

“Oh, yeah? And for what possible reason?” Nick quickly turns the thick moment into teasing as he’s turning around, settling himself between Stef’s legs and demanding to have his hair washed (or rather the skin on his head scratched properly). (Like they already have their routine. Like they already fell into wholeness of being together, with their habits and likings and understanding).

“Sex is actually not that bad,” Stef says to the crook of Nick’s neck, wrapping himself around Nick from behind to deliver expected amount of pets and scratches to Nick seeking everything with blissfulness.

“Ah, I always knew you’re a one-track mind about me, Stef. But hey, facts only, we would be going at it all night long, baby,” Nick sounds very pleased with himself as he’s giving himself entirely in to Stef’s caressing touch.

“Don’t you want to see me like this, on court, Nick?” Stef gets himself closer, letting Nick feel his body, warm and taunt all around him, his strong thighs wrapped around Nick’s waist in an iron grip that feels like a grounding life rope, though. And he teases Nick with his hands scratching him behind the ears and warm words whispered there. “Owned. Broken. Yours. Hmm?” Stef nuzzles the skin behind Nick’s ear.

“You’re not playing fair but then again you wouldn’t be number one if you did,” Nick hums in response, soft and like made of butter in Stef’s arms. God. He admires everything about him as a tennis player but this ability to goad the opponents intro a trap so well, to play on their weaknesses, to strategise the game against them in a smart, sneaky way and still win fair and square?

There were times people assumed Stefanos was a frail, artistic boy that would never play strong, at times merciless and always fully committed tennis. There were times Nick thought of him like this. A whimsical artist with his camera more than he’s with his racquet. Stef proved them all wrong. Always. When he came on court they would always underestimate him and that was his advantage – he made their ignorance into his biggest weapon. And now no one dares to assume he’s not there to win. He’s not there to own you with his grace but force, with his strategy but passion. Nick fell in love with a tennis player, before he fell in love with a person. Maybe that’s why it feels so different. It feels so deep. It feels larger than life. “Have you seen you playing tennis, Mister Tsitsipas? You’re unstoppable. You’re fucking amazing. I wouldn’t even come close.”

“But you did, Nick. You did,” Stef sounds so very firm. Always believing.

“But I wouldn’t now,” with Nick responding with a grunted denial.

“Wouldnts and woulds again, Nick,” Stef sounds like he’s been struggling to let the words out, but he does. Always the brave one. Always facing the breaks with daring inevitability. Calling things by their name, out loud. And yet, his touch remains reassuring.

Nick turns around to meet Stef’s wistful gaze. Nick can face the breaks, too, if he’s willing, if he cares, if he’s committed enough. And he is. Now. He is. There is no going back. They are in too deep now. “Come to Bahamas. Who gives a fuck about that Asian swing. It’s always warm back at home. You always say how you love the sun. It’s cold here. You don’t belong here, Stef. There are so many places I wanna show you,” it spills out as they look at each other, both brave, both open, both vulnerable. Both talking about two different things. Stef about moving on, growing. Succeeding. Nick about running away, pretending and hiding.

Again.

Even if this is also huge for him. Because he’s committing himself to Stef. He just wants to drag him to his hiding place.

He wants to steal him from tennis. So that Stef could stop being a constant reminder of what he is missing out or how there are still people believing in him.

They stay like that, silent. Knowing there is no meeting halfway here. There is only making a choice. There is risking everything with this one ball. This one shot. Before the match point in a tie break. And they are on the opposite sites of the net. Only one of them is going to win this.

“Come on. Dad’s gonna kill me,” Stef breaks the match point, nudging them to leave this bubble of maybes and woulds and what ifs. The bubble bursts with the way water feels cool on their skin and distance between their bodies growing along with the one between their lives.

“Ah, how could I forgot. Apostolos the Great still ruling your schedule and your life. What would the great ruler say if he saw all the marks I left on you, Stef?” Nick is gloating, clinging to this moment, trying to pull Stef back in but Stef is already outside his reach, putting on a bathrobe, which feels like miles away.

Nick feels very cold all of the sudden.

“Don’t gloat, you look like a balloon.”

“A person can’t look like a balloon, Stefanos,” Nick is scrambling out of the bath reluctantly, reaching for the towel, the chill like glued to his skin now.

A foreboding. The underwater current disturbing the serenity under the surface.

“Sure they can. You do,” Stef is drying his hair off with a towel and Nick joins him to soothe the feeling of cool on his body (or inside it), taking the towel from him to do the job. 

“I’m not a baby,” Stef pouts looking exactly like one, with wet strands of hair plastered on his face, cheeks rosy from the bath and nose crunching in very much frail disapproval of the treatment.

“You are. My baby,” Nick reminds him with a kiss on his forehead and only half mocking tone in his voice. The touch prevails and they stay like that for a while. Delaying the inevitable.

“Stay?” Nick asks. Small and silent. Unsure. It’s so unlike him. It’s easy to not recognise his voice like that. They hold hands, with foreheads leaning. Inseparable. For this moment. At least for now.

@

In the end Stef does stay. He doesn’t need convincing. Nick wants to give him one of his tank tops (God, he wants so much to see Stef in it, he wants so much for Stef to keep it, and he wants to think about Stef wearing it every time they are separated and the thought of Stef skin touching the material, the thought of Stef wrapped in what’s his? Would keep him going for a long time). But Stef stays in a bathrobe on a bed with Nick after Nick changes into his Deadpool pyjamas.

They face each other and lie in silence. With hands interlaced between them. Stef’s fingers wander to Nick’s forearm as he traces Nick’s tattoo lovingly.

“Time is running out,” Stef murmurs, carefully reading the words like it’s Braille and he feels them more than sees them.

Nick hums to that, with eyes half-closed. Lulled to safety. Lulled to peace. Completely docile. Completely Stef’s.

“What’s this about for you, Nick?” the silence is nice. The silence is rare in Nick’s life, so it cannot last. But Stef’s interrupting it is not unwelcome. It’s been becoming something familiar. Something for which there’s space in Nick’s life.

“Living in the moment? Living in now. Making the most out of now. No regrets, no doubts, no overthinking.”

“How do you think they will remember you were ever there?” Stef continues after a beat. Hand warm on Nick’s arm, eyes peering into his soul. Daring to pull it on the outside. Daring it to confess.

Nick refuses. Nick chuckles. “I feel like I’m being interviewed for one of your blog entries, Stef.”

More comfortable silence follows. Nick hangs on the verge of dozing off, surrounded by warmth and serenity and home. He thinks he hears Stefanos say, like over the surface of the water, a kind, guiding voice. A lighthouse too. “But if they don’t remember us, what’s the point of living the now?”

@

He sleeps soundly. Dreams good dreams. Stays under water where he always found purpose. Where he always found answers. Stefanos is there all of a sudden. Swims to him surrounded by a halo like touched by a blessing or divinity. Like he always was. Above and beyond, celestial and pure. With Nick being deep in the darkness, at the bottom, unreachable, unsalvageable maybe. But Stef finds him there and reaches out his hands to cradle his face between them like something precious.

It feels so real. Stefanos caressing his face, his fingers in his hair, maybe even a ghost of a kiss on his forehead.

Nick doesn’t want to open his eyes. Not yet. He’s not ready. He will never be ready.

He wakes up to an empty bed, for a moment yearning so much for that familiar face within his focus, so close, grounding him. There’s a plushie on the pillow, the one Stef won in Paris after their go kart date. The one that looked like Nick, with his grumpy smirk. The one Stef called Nikklaus, because he’s a nerd and because he’s more than Nick will ever deserve. And sure enough, there’s a card there, too.

_I’ll be seeing you around, Nick._

Oozing with certainty. With the same belief Stef always had in him.

_You will get there. You will. And I’ll be waiting for you there. And we’ll see each other there. _

Nick stays in bed and inhales the smell and warmth Stefanos left there, and his clothes and all around him. Like a lovesick puppy. Trying to engrave the words on the surface of his heart. Trying keep faith in there.

*

They don’t see each other until January, though. It all comes in full circle as it always does with Nick. Stef goes on to play tennis and fight and Nick retreats back home to pretend he can or he still remembers how. There’s no holiday for them on Bahamas. There’s no lifting any trophies for Nick, either. Stef secures his number one seat on tour and Nick avoids holding a tennis racquet or watching tennis for whole weeks. Like his hands don’t shake, like there is no absence in him, like he knows anything else more and better and deeper and can replace tennis with.

Like he knows how to be without it.

  1. ** Ordeal**

_The Supreme Ordeal may be a dangerous physical test or a deep inner crisis that the Hero must face in order to survive or for the world in which the Hero lives to continue to exist. Whether it be facing his greatest fear or most deadly foe, the Hero must draw upon all of his skills and his experiences gathered upon the path to the inmost cave in order to overcome his most difficulty challenge. _  
  
Only through some form of "death" can the Hero be reborn, experiencing a metaphorical resurrection that somehow grants him greater power or insight necessary in order to fulfill his destiny or reach his journey's end. This is the high-point of the Hero's story and where everything he holds dear is put on the line. If he fails, he will either die or life as he knows it will never be the same again.

*

Nick goes into hibernation. Plays basketball, watches it even more, there’s season of barbecuing hitting off before Christmas, too. He hangs with his friends, does a lot of work for the foundation, spends there whole days, watching these kids with their hopes and dreams, chasing it all, believing in it all. He could learn so much from them. Or is this naïve? Or is this thinking like you did before? Like it all seemed so easy and within your reach.

_I’m gonna become a tennis player. _

Said just like that. Like a wish that can happen just by the mere shaping the words and saying them out loud. So why does it feel like he hasn’t moved from that point? Like it all came down to him saying the words and being stuck on just that?

The hibernation he falls into means that he lives his life like he normally would. Live the now. Live the moment. But it also feels like he’s behind the glass, observing himself, outside his own body, moving in circles, being trapped in a wheel of safe routine and cowardly escapism. So, in a way, he doesn’t live either now or the moment.

It’s just relieving patterns he’s learned by heart by this point.

*

That is until Rafa visits and breaks the slumber, wakes Nick up from his hibernation. Nick’s been in the dark, hiding in his cave until Rafa breaks the wall of the cave down and lets the sun and the heat in.

It’s past Christmas, mere days to New Year’s Eve. That new beginning of January looming on the horizon. That clean slate. A new chapter. Nick always naively thought of it like this. Like he can start from scratch. Again. And again. How many times?

Rafa stands at the doorstep of his house, in a Tshirt with Wolverine Nick sent him (they have matching ones, now. Wade with his endless fascination with Logan. Nick always hastily put aside these parallels. Never wanted to inspect them too close). The fact Rafa’s put it on is a lot for Nick to compute. And the fact, Rafa’s here at all makes him be completely dumbstruck.

“What the fuck?” that’s all he manages to choke out. Smooth. Real smooth.

“Bad time?” Rafa lifts his eyebrow in amused confusion, which knocks all the possible following words from Nick’s head even more. There’s a risk of him gaping like a fish instead so he scrambles for the remnants of his braincells to continue.

“Uhm, I mean no rude implications or being unwelcome or any of that thing, but, like, what the fuck are you doing here?”

Rafa’s incredulous face makes the threat of Nick being rendered speechless again very real until he says. “We have Australian Open to win, si?”

And Nick realizes that for a moment there, opening the door to Rafa standing there in that stupid Tshirt, and his RafaAcademy cap, looking so domestic like he belongs here, like he has no other life outside what they’ve built with Nick, carefully, not without difficulties and it’s still so frail and uncertain (like everything related to tennis in Nick’s life, there are so few things that aren’t, almost as if his life’s been becoming tennis slowly, inevitably and he didn’t even notice), for a moment there, he thought, Rafa came here for him. Rafa came here to be a part of his life. As who? Fuck. He’s a selfish child. With blow up expectations and whimsical demands.

Some new beginning.

Some starting from scratch.

“That’s hilarious,” Nick mumbles, retreating back home in a slump, but with a gesture letting Rafa in.

“Okay. So I come here for nothing. Good luck then, Nick,” and instead of getting inside, Rafa sets to leave. Completely. Panic flares inside Nick with a rush, he hasn’t felt for a while. Walking under water in slow motion behind the glass, the feelings reaching him with delay, or at all. Not now. Not with that sun pouring through the cracks on the walls of isolation he built.

“Wait, stop,” there’s “please” stuck in his throat that tastes like desperation he doesn’t speak out loud though, even if his hand closes on Rafa’s wrist to make him pause mid-step. “Fuck. This is a lot to process. It’s a long way from Spain. You have your family, your students. You really did come here for nothing, Raf,” reluctantly Nick lets go of his wrist? Hand?

He stops touching him. Him allowing himself the name is daring enough. He looks at the ground, all the attitude he always flaunts, especially at this man, gone, into the air. There’s shame and resignation in its place.

Until Rafa lifts his head up (a touch of his finger on Nick’s chin like that heat making the cave crumble more and more into pieces) and says, without hesitation. “No, I did not, Nick.”

Nick thinks he can see the shimmer of purpose inside himself. And it swells, when Rafa adds. “And I never think I say that, but we need to work on bring back that attitude you have. I miss it, but hush, not tell no one, si.”

And now that warm flutter bursts out in the open in a full laughter, Nick thought he forgot he has in him.

“Vamos. Burgers first,” but Rafa reminds him. Reminds him for the next few weeks. 

@

They don’t play tennis at the beginning. Nick’s surprised, because he always thought Rafa’s made of tennis first and only then of the rest of the life. He waited with family so long, nothing ever came first, but tennis (Nick always yearned to learn that from him, Nick always got bitter and frustrated that he didn’t know how, Nick always let it out at Rafa like it was his fault). Rafa doesn’t mention tennis at all. Bringing that naïve hope inside Nick back, making him dare.

That maybe he came here for him too.

So he takes Rafa to all his favourite places, like they have all the time in the world. Like they’ve been doing it for a while. Nick gets his holiday he thought he’s not allowed to. The season is over anyway and January seems suddenly far away. He clings to this dare, to this hope: _let us stay here, in this perfect neither here nor there._

People at _Six ‘n’ Four_ know Rafa’s order by heart. Nick’s been a regular what feels like all his life. And people he brings there are considered a family. The cooks are throwing funny glances at them. Probably wondering is Rafa a part of that family. Is he? What is he? What are they?

“Should teach you make that fish. I promised, si?” Rafa tells him in between the bites, knowing how often Nick stuffs himself with all the junk food and how he rarely cooks and refuses to embrace the fact that he actually can because he’s too lazy.

“You didn’t promise to teach me but to cook it for me,” Nick slurps on the drink with a cheeky grin.

“You watch and I make, same thing.”

“Okay,” Nick says very fast and eager, kicking himself for blatant enthusiasm and trying to decipher the meaning of Rafa’s amused, maybe even fond smile.

They go on a beach, to Nick’s favourite spot, that’s not crowded, has the most amazing view on the coastline and a sunset dipping it in crimson red.

“Careful. There are venomous jellyfish here,” Nick teases as Rafa instantly heads for water, taking his shirt off. Nick tries not to stare, Rafa’s body has always been this magnificent weapon moulded in ancient fires of almost godly dedication and nothing changed, even though he’s been retired for almost 3 years. That echo of bitterness, of envy, of ache stirs inside him. With blaming, with shame, with demands. (_I want to be you? I want to be like you?)_

“Por favor, Nick, you talk to an islander. Water is home. Give me some credit,” Rafa winks at him and rushes to dive in. Nick shudders at the memories of Rafa charging off the net to his side of the court, ready to play his best tennis, ready to fight the fight of his life. It was so long ago when they played against each other. When Nick was at his best. When Nick wanted to be at his best. When Nick loved tennis like nothing else.

Nick watches him swim, stays behind in his clothes (hides), like he’s a visitor in Rafa’s kingdom (home) not the other way round. Rafa looks like one with water. He’s a speck of swift gold among the crystal blue. Unreachable like he was on court. Majestic and strong. But graceful, too. Just like he was on court, too. Nick is staring. Nick admires. Nick feels inadequate. Like when he watched that Australian Open final and Nana asked him if he’s ready to be the hero?

“Not swimming?’ Rafa is standing there, bathed in the crimson rays of the setting sun. His skin, wet and red, like he came from clay, like he shall return to clay, like he’s the god of it, because he is. Nick is that boy clutching the ball Rafa signed for him, carrying it with him everywhere like a talisman for all his life. “Thought you’re islander too?” he’s shaking water off his head, cold droplets reach Nick’s skin. It’s a strangely sensual feeling and his throat is very dry now as he replies, hoarse and uncertain.

“Told you, jellyfish.”

“They all always call you outrageous, Nick and you tell me jellyfish is your kryptonite?” Rafa’s leaning now, with an eyebrow-raised teasing face, making more droplets of water touch Nick. Nick would be proud of dragging Rafa on board of a comic book world like that, if he weren’t so distracted with the sensation.

Somehow intimate.

“Everyone has their kryptonite,” he’s looking up at Rafa, an aura of red around him making his face dim in twilight and yet he shines to Nick. He thinks, this is who Rafa’s always been for him.

Not a part of a family. Not even a coach, a role model, no.

He’s the last rays of sun you try to chase as they disappear beyond the horizon.

“Don’t you?” he hates how childishly curious he sounds.

“Course I do. Not one. Many,” and Rafa’s finger is on his mouth, a gesture implying he won’t be sharing this particular secret with Nick now, or never (Nick realises he’s been holding his breath, waiting for an answer like assuming there are none, weaknesses, that is, because gods don’t have one, do they?). The gesture disturbs Nick, too. There are images at the back of his head, swirling. What ifs, that never happened and never will. The images make the dryness in his throat grow. “And maybe it’s time, Nick, you shouldn’t just watch. But you should do,” Rafa is saying, a voice getting to him like over the distance. Nick is dazed. Is he talking about tennis? Is he talking about them? But there are no “they”. Nick chokes on a question but Rafa’s gone. Back to his hotel. Nick every day wrestles with voicing out the suggestion: _you should stay at my house, you know?_ Knowing he will not dare, because knowing the temptation, the confusion or both it would be loaded with.

Stefanos once told him something similar. Or implied something similar, Nick remembers. It was before he was barely present in Nick’s life. They met at the swimming pool in one of the hotels, during one of the Dubai masters. Nick thought of that kid as weird and out of touch, back then, as he emerged from under the surface where he was chasing elusive serenity of home to Stefanos sitting by the edge, dangling his legs over the water and just watching Nick with that unreadable calm on his face.

“ I love the water,” he announced, as if Nick had asked, with Nick paddling there casually, not even gracing him with a look.

“Random, but okay.”

“I once almost drowned, you know?” Nick turned abruptly, wondering whether Stefanos was being dramatic, as he often did, or sharing something so personal with him in the middle of a hotel swimming room, like they had known each other for years and trusted each other that much.

“Are you pulling my leg now, bro?” this kid was weird,, but he embraced it, he always did. Unapolgetically liberated. Rarely bothered. Patient and disarmingly open.

“No. I really almost did. But I love the water,” Stefanos predicted Nick’s question with a stoic kindness of a wiseman. That was another thing about Tsitsipas. The old soul in young body thing. In a way he talked. Shining in his eyes, too. “If you don’t face your fear immediately, you will become a hostage of it for the rest of your life. That’s why,” Stefanos explained, poignant and focused and then he just left this place, leaving Nick wondering not for the first or the last time: if Tsitsipas was quoting IKEA quotes at random at people or was he actually wise and mature and gracious about it with people.

Pulling on all the right emotional strings along the way. 

Nick stays on the beach till it gets dark, the words inside his head dissolving into static, into white noise that by this point he tamed as familiar.

@

He doesn’t have to wait long for Rafa’s weaknesses to be revealed. It’s a strange kind of routine they’ve fallen into. Nick doesn’t ask questions, not yet. He doesn’t want to jinx it. What is Rafa really doing here, how long will he stay, why he hasn’t talked about tennis yet? And Rafa doesn’t look like he’s waiting for Nick to break the unspoken settlement.

Nick feels like he’s caught the sunrays and holds them in his hands. Whenever Rafa just shows up at his house like an inseparable part of his life.

He’s brought croissants this time and Quincy must have smelled the snacks because she’s sprinting out of the house, straight at Rafa with her enthusiastic barking and acrobatic jumps all over the visitor. Rafa looks uncomfortable and stiff, stepping from one foot to another, like he’s afraid?

Nick bursts out laughing to that. “This is your kryptonite, man? Dogs?” he continues over giggles to Rafa frowning with his all teeth sheepish smile.

“This smelly old lady can mostly pester you with gross kisses and she’s the biggest vulture ever. Like she’s all stomach and heart and I think, no brain. She takes after me,” Nick is grabbing his pet and cuddling her close to his chest, talking with a gurgling voice when showering her with kisses.

“How do you say it? All barking no biting? Just like you, true,” Rafa chuckles and tentatively reaches out his hand to stroke the dog wriggling in Nick’s arms, basking in the attention, but still primarily desperate for them snacks.

“Haha, very funny, but that would be correct,” the gesture brings Rafa closer, not only physically. As Rafa strokes Quincy under her chin, his face growing softer and more curious and eager than anxious, Nick feels a realisation creeping in.

Rafa is not a sun to chase.

Rafa is like family.

“You have to share, then,” Rafa lifts the bag smelling of freshly baked delicacies and the realisation inside Nick turns to warmth of calm acceptance.

“Or I can take this and you can take her, but careful when I said smelly, I meant it. When she gets excited, she can gas you,” and Nick casually walks in the direction of his porch with the view on his private pool. Throwing over his shoulder, nonchalant. “And there’s another one. King. But he wouldn’t move his lazy ass, even for the apocalypse, I’d reckon.”

Rafa stays behind, a bit stunted and continuing his awkward fumbles with Quincy, even though she desperately tries to break free, wanting to chase Nick and the bag he’s carrying. “So both your dogs take after you, Nick,” he’s not stunted enough not to sass Nick.

Nick laughs in the distance. Carefree and joy, he thought he forgot about completely.

@

By the time they have finished breakfast, Rafa’s swamped with dogs, demanding to be petted and kissed and he eagerly provides. Nick tries not to stare fondly and what’s more, he fiddles with his phone, badly wanting to memorise the moment with preferably thousand of pictures.

“Not that scary anymore?” he says instead, trying to compose himself from giddiness bursting inside him.

“They take after you, si, so, no,? Rafa gives him his awry smile, entirely not helping with Nick’s composure.

_Don’t ask him, don’t ask him, don’t ask him_ drums inside Nick’s head the entire time he watched Rafa take in to his dogs, sitting on his porch, drinking coffee and looking like he’s belonged here.

Like he’s a part of Nick’s life.

Like he’s an anchor.

He feels like during a changeover, when he’s one game away from winning the match and he wants to rush the point, wrap it up quick, jump into it instantly and blindly and more often than not ruin his chance. You never rush the point. You never think that far ahead. You focus on one ball at the time. Rafa told him and Nick takes a deep breath and remembers and stops himself from squirming in his seat and wrestling the pressure of thoughts in his head.

“So what about that golf game, Raf? I wanna see you lose your marbles like people often did with you on clay?” he asks instead, prolonging that match point, pretending he can patiently wait through it and not screw it up.

“You wish. But if you really want your ass kicked on the golf court too, no problem, I can do that for you, Nick.”

@

They bicker over music in Nick’s car the entire way. Rafa wants to play radio music, Nick tells him “Driver picks the music shotgun shuts his cakehole,” to which Rafa replies his eyebrow-raised in frustration confused “Qué?”. The hip-hop blasts loud to King, sprawled on Rafa’s lap, throwing judging glances at his master mirroring Rafa’s.

“Don’t be such a dad, okay? Like I’m not listening to _Born in the USA_ or some other generic crap in my car, entiendes?” Nick tells both of them. King has only pity for him and Rafa shakes his head in fond disapproval.

@

There are tennis court near the golfing place. Nick forgot. When he parks the car and they get off, the sound of the ball hitting the clay almost knocks the breath from his lungs.

He stops. He listens. And he breaks inside.

He didn’t hold a tennis racquet since Asia happened.

Or didn’t happen.

Since he pretended he can start all over again and go back to square one. He went into hibernation and acted like tennis doesn’t exist. At all. More importantly not in his life. This is how the routine cycle worked. Him healing, him crawling back to the beginning of the road, brushing off the dust of failures, mostly in the battle with himself, him starting new chapter that is really the epilogue of the book, where a character realises he’s been walking in circles. And nothing ever changes.

The sound echoes so loud, Nick thinks he’s going deaf. The noise inside his head is overwhelming and the ache inside his chest suffocates him. King licks on his hand, reassuring, knowing. Nudging him with his snout. Like they went through this before. Like he’s the guardian. And then, there’s a warm hand on his shoulder he registers, like emerging from deep, thick, cold water. That feels so solid, he leans to like to instantly.

“Nick?”

The voice sounds familiar, too. The voice he remembers interlacing with the sounds of the ball hitting the ground. The voice pushing him to go further, deeper, always to the extreme. To win.

“Why did you come here, Rafa?” like he’s speaking from the underground. (Because he does, from the very core of his soul). And so in the end he does rush the break point. Like he often did. How much in control over it he can be this time?

Rafa puts some distance between them, to which Nick’s body reacts with stiff refusal. He wants to chase his hand. This serene feeling of known. But then come Rafa’s words. “I waited for you. To realise. To know.”

He breathes a little bit calmer, reaching for King’s fur, close by his side, to root himself in this feeling. Of known. Even if Rafa speaks out loud about things he buried deep. He wants to be keep hidden. Even if Rafa is taking layers off him, making him feel bare and exposed.

“Know what?’ so he pretends, trying not to hear the sound of the balls crashing with the strings and then back on the ground. His heart is so loud he thinks it will break his chest.

“That you want to play tennis. You want to win the slam,” and Rafa is back, close, not touching, but shielding, keeping him whole. “That you love tennis, Nick.”

Nick refuses to look at him. He stands there, by his car, like frozen. Every sound of the ball like a physical hit on his body.

“No. That’s you, not me, Rafa,” he shakes his head in fervor, an emphasis, for whom? Probably himself.

“You let media put this image on you. Because is easier. Is easier to be scared, when they think coward of you. Is easier to run, to hide when they don’t expect nothing from you. But you can’t run from yourself, Nick. And there’s tennis here. You’re full of tennis,” and now there comes touch. Rafa stands in front of Nick and his finger is on a place where Nick’s heart beats wildly. Can Rafa hear it? Can Rafa feel it?

“This is not love. Tennis led me to nothing but shitty places.”

“You ran from tennis to these places, Nick,” always the answer to everything. Nick’s shaking. There are cracks on the tame built heavy and unbreakable inside him.

“This is not love. Tennis makes me weak. It drives me fucking mad. It makes me so angry. It leaves me empty, hating myself and hating it,” he mumbles, looking down, stroking King, trying to keep it together and not look at Rafa. Rafa, who’s peering into his soul, seeing everything. The wave inside him grows bigger and bigger, the hostile water, the brewing storm. Not the serenity of underwater he’s used to.

Rafa chuckles. Not mockingly. Not with amusement. But with warm understanding and disarmed relief. “Nick, have you ever been in love? Don’t you know this is exactly what love is?” Rafa’s hand lands on Nick’s shoulder and Nick wants to give in, wants to lean closer, he’s made of nothing but that want. But he turns around, hastily wiping his eyes, catching humiliating moisture King licks from his fingers, like covering tracks, hiding evidence. Of the truth Rafa is revealing now, painfully tearing it right from the very core of Nick’s heart.

“Fuck this, man.”

There’s silence, filled with the sounds of balls, persistent, unavoidable, filling Nick up with swelling regret and ache. The wave inside him threatens to overflow and break the tame.

“You know. You wear your Deadpool Tshirt, you want people to think you’re Wade, all mouth, smartass, respondiendo, fresco, intocable,. You’re not Wade,” Rafa pauses, doesn’t get closer, doesn’t touch him but Nick already feels raw and exposed. Even if he doesn’t see those kind, warm eyes, seeing into him so much. “You’re Laura, Nick. Heart, and brave and yes, all that I talk about before,” there’s a sound of laughter ringing in his words now. “But Laura not run, Nick. She don’t run. Ever. And you shouldn’t, too. Time to stop running, Nick.”

Nick’s fingernails leave mark on the inside of his palms. He’s struggling so hard not to fall apart, not to let the tame break. Rafa using comic book character to get to him. To the very center of his heart, like that? It’s too much. Not only he’s bleeding the truth, Rafa seals the realisation in him how much of a family he’s become. How very important.

“Golf can wait. But we have a draw to settle on a tennis court. What do you say, Nick?” his body’s moving before he even says “yes” and it’s like a big burden was taken off him.

This is his admittance. This is him accepting that truth. And it’s not an open wound anymore. It’s an inseparable part of his inside.

He does love tennis. And he doesn’t want to be without it anymore.

@

So he goes back on court and goes back to train and goes back to dare to hope and believe. But it’s different. There is no pressure making him feel like he’s suffocating. Because there are no stakes anymore. They’ve forgotten about him. They moved on. No one waits for those who don’t chase the opportunities. No one waits for those who choose to stay behind, stuck.

So he’s got nothing to lose anymore.

He forgot what it means to play like it matters. He forgot what it means to play with heart. He remembers with Rafa. Their last match on Wimbledon brought 5-5 draw between them. Every match dear and cherished and Nick feels pride that they got there, to this balance, neither wishing to let go, neither breaking this balance between them. But he yearns for more, too, the realisation he will never play Rafa professionally almost making him want to stop altogether.

“You know, I used to dream of winning Australian with you. Getting to the final with you and winning, after 30 years the local does, and with you. Damn, that’s history, man,” Nick says in the locker rooms, getting ready for the shower, feeling like they’ve just played masters together. Rafa is never not 100% on court, even if he plays so rarely now. Maybe especially when he trains. Which gives Nick a taste of what used to be, which fuels the yearning for that what if they will not get to fulfill anymore.

“It don’t matter who you play, Nick. You play the ball, not a person. You win the ball, not a person. Is you, your racquet and the ball you must win, the ball you must make yours. Is all,” Rafa dries his hair off with a towel, freshly showered and Nick steals glances and sees the same god of clay he used to see. All golden monument of unyielding strength and glory.

He still yearns. He thinks he would even sacrifice his comeback on court for one more match with Rafa. But he takes the words in. All the words Rafa shares with him. He tattoos them on the surface of his heart to reach out and to remember them when the demons come out playing to steal his chance. To steal his belief.

Again.

@

He would always mouth back and act nonchalantly at the media before. All the stories on the Internet, painting him a pariah, casting him aside, ostracizing him, making him responsible, he acted like he doesn’t care, like it doesn’t touch him, like his entire life is not woven out of these strings they pull.

But the noose he created for himself was always about the media. He did the things he did, because they were watching. And they were watching because they expected him to do those things. A wild goose’s chase in which he always ended up losing sight of what mattered.. Media’s judgment stinging, fueling his paranoia, adding to his anxiety.

_Are you not entertained? _

Few days before New Year’s Eve, nagging feeling of inevitability, of the final chapter approaching (or the prologue for the new?), muscles aching from their latest training session with Rafa, his heart clear and full of purpose but the prospect of maybe losing a grip on all this with Rafa leaving soon, he decided to look himself up. To recall. What was left of him out there. What they will remember, or what they do remember, when he’s gone.

The time gap was a lot. It was a long time ago they last shoved him into labels, added subtext, twisted the context or actually held him responsible, even if all he did, really, was to run in circles in the maze of their (his own?) making. The stories from years ago were colourful, full of dramatic details, juicy bits and soap opera quality. Never about his tennis. Few articles in between talked about wasted potential and genius failing no one but himself mostly. But it all drown under the sensationalism that had nothing to do with tennis.

Like he never played one.

Like he never sacrificed so much of himself for.

Struggled with his demons for.

Loved and hated but could never entirely break away from. 

Because his life _was_ tennis.

The noise inside his head is buzzing as he leaves the browser, capital letters of the headlines bright and blinding in his head, twisting and twirling into a whirlpool of technicolour.

** _FACES POSSIBLE SUSPENSION AFTER ANNOTHER OUTBURST_ **

** _NICK KYRGIOS ON PROBATION _ **

** _20 MOST RIDICULOUS THINGS NICK KYRGIOS SAID _ **

** _WASTING HIS TALENT FOR YEARS _ **

Like he never played tennis. Like he never bled for tennis. Like he never loved tennis to the point of hating it.

This is all that will be left. This is all they will remember.

The sound of a message on his phone breaks the increasing static inside him. It’s Stefanos. Just seeing his name on his phone’s display makes static change into ache. It’s been a while. It feels like they live in opposite corners of the Earth, live their contradictory lives, with Nick running away, with Nick being left behind, and Stef always moving on, always growing. With tennis the only thing that can bring them together, and somehow the only thing that also sets them apart.

There’ve been messages and phone calls. With Christmas wishes

_its a pity you insist on living far away from me stef cos i had these great plans of dressing up as santa for u _

_With you underneath as a present? _

_u dirty boy great minds think alike _

_……._

_I would take you to an ice rink and giggle over you falling a lot over there but then catch you when you do and they have the best hot chocolate there and your nose would be all red and cold and I would kiss it to make it better._

_thats super cheesy, baby_

_You know me, bro. I’m all about cheesy. _

_im so booking a flight tho_

_Heh. That would be the best present, Nick. _

_would …._

_Yeah, I hate that word too._

When Nick can’t sleep and thinks about Stef’s soothing warmth. And missing Stef’s soothing warmth.

_hit me with some ikea wisdom _

_You can’t sleep again?_

_yeah…._

_For in dreams we enter a world that is entirely our own. Let them swim in the deepest ocean or glide over the highest cloud._

_thats not ikea stef cut me some slack ok?? thats totally harry potter _

_Still legit, bro. _

Or just because.

_*sends a link*_

_Are you trying to convert me to your music, Nick? I’ll stick to my shopping centers default music, as you like to call it, thank you very much. _

_listen to the lyrics princess_

_(When you're ready, just say you're ready // When all the baggage just ain't as heavy // And the party's over, just don't forget me // We'll change the pace and we'll just go slow // You won't ever have to worry, you won't ever have to hide // And you've seen all my mistakes, so look me in my eyes)_

_That’s cheesy, bro. _

_then i guess we’re meant to be, baby. _

Sexting happens, too. As promised.

_so what r u wearin’, baby? _

_Nothing, bro ;-)_

_hmm nice tell me moar _

_ I’m lying in my bed. Naked. Thinking about you all over me. Your sweat, your skin. I’ve just jerked you off and you spilled all over me and I’m spreading your cum on my stomach, on my chest tasting you on my fingers….I’m so hard, Nick._

_fuckjesuschrist_

_I don’t want to fuck Jesus Christ, bro. _

_stef!!!!!!_

_I want to fuck your mouth, hmm? _

_shit wtf skdjhkfh_

_Can I?_

_fuck yes_

_Say it, then._

_fuck my mouth use it stef please _

_How much of me do you think you can take, Nick?_

_everything everything that u give me baby _

_And when I’m fucking your mouth and pulling your hair, I’m sucking on my fingers covered in you and I’m coming from just that taste, Nick. _

Nick doesn’t even touch himself that time and can’t type because his fingers are shaking from the high. He needs few solid minutes to come round.

_ive created a monster _

_I just want you so fucking much, bro. _

They don’t text about tennis. Stef is not the one that can show him the way. Nick is the one that can show himself the way, in the end. Until there’s that message before New Year’s Eve, after Nick’s just dug out all that crap on himself from the Internet and spiraled into the lowest of low.

Stef’s there, like he senses, like he knows, like he’s throwing him a life rope over the miles.

_Remember when I asked you about how will they remember you were ever there? This is how I will remember._

There’s a link there to the video. Stef’s video. He has an official travelling site where he talks culture, geography, shares wisdoms of different nations, shares wisdoms of his own. An old soul traveler trapped in young body. Little prince lost on the planet, discovering everything with wonder and openness.

Discovering Nick with wonder and openness, turns out.

The video is private. It’s addressed only for Nick to see. The title very Stef-like. Big and unapologetic. Pathos. But maybe the truth somewhere there in between the lines.

_The Hero Journey._

Nick chuckles, but an emotion tugs at his heart. An ache to believe. To believe in himself like Stef does, like others do.

Like maybe he can.

He went out there, to the Net, to the archives of history that is left behind them and saw anything but tennis. Here, it’s him _only _playing tennis. Some shots are Stef’s, when he was sneaking in the stands with his camera back in the days. Some are from an official coverage. All are a story of a tennis player with magic shots, passionate commitment and energy brimming, burning bright like a single star on the night’s sky. The battles he wedges on court are interlaced with scenes of him being himself, genuine, engaging, joking, bluntly honest and boyishly open. Some Stef recorded when they spent time together in between the matches. With many close-ups on his eyes, revealing a lot, revealing what sometimes is not on his mouth out loud, revealing maybe his entire goddamn soul like this. The music starts slow, a background to what he has, what he shows out there. And Stef makes him show everything. There’s sport there, but there’s heart, too. There’s a complex boy that fights for himself, that loses, that raises up again, and loses again. There’s a lost boy that screams at the monsters inside him, with anger unsoothed and fear untamed. There’s a man trying to grow up, stumbling, trying again. There’s a sportsman who wants to be one but doubts himself along the way many times. This heart in him prevails though. When he plays, when he chases the ball, when he has eyes only for it. No distractions exist. His head is absolutely silent. And his body acts on instinct or on that passionate impulse inside him. The music builds, as words are no longer needed and he speaks through his tennis, through his game, Stef captured with awe of a fan but intimacy of someone that knows exactly how much it costs Nick. To get there. To find this inside himself. To try and eventually to do, too.

People always saw these parts of him separately: crowds pleaser or a local clown and an immense tennis genius wasting away. Stef managed to bridge the gap, to hold him whole, all pieces falling together into the complete image, with cracks and scars that did not break him apart, but made him stronger, luminous.

The starlight coming through these cracks, as he shines, as he brims bright.

As the music reaches the climax and so does his radiance, the words follow. On black screen. But they flash with an echo of that star, or a reflection of it. Like it was written. Like it is inevitable.

_“Stars are fires that burn for thousands of years. Some of them burn slow and long, like red dwarfs. Others-blue giants-burn their fuel so fast they shine across great distances, and are easy to see. As they start to run out of fuel, they burn helium, grow even hotter, and explode in a supernova. Supernovas, they're brighter than the brightest galaxies. They die, but everyone watches them go.”_

The emotion tugging at his heart, has swollen to the size of a lump in his throat now. His face is wet, too. But as the screen becomes black (like his life without tennis, like tennis world without him, maybe?) he feels light. Relieved of the burden of realisation, he never wanted to name. He feels like he’s standing naked in the rain, weightless and clean and liberated.

_stef……_

He writes with shaking hands.

_See you in the Melbourne final, Nick. _

Is the response that rings with this one word now beating inside his heart, overflowing in him with shape and clarity.

_Believe. _

@

Rafa stays till New Year’s Eve. Nick doesn’t ask him, about family issues maybe? Why he’s not there with them? Why he’s here with him instead. He doesn’t ask him because he believes now. In making it worthwhile. In making him proud. Himself along the way.

They train a lot and Nick feels anchored in his body. He needs a lot of work to remind it how to fight, how to endure. But a lot of it comes from his heart now. And it’s no longer clouded with doubts, his head seems clean, too. He knows how to channel the thoughts buzzing into shots, he draws fuel from all that energy brimming inside and makes his body do the magic.

There’s a party at Christos’ house, a tradition. All the family’s there. Friends, too. Nick catches a glimpse of Ajla with her now husband. She salutes, flashing her wedding ring and he winks back, teasing but happy. He knows, now, how he tried to steal her life, bend it to his needs. How his light back then was not bright, but burning. Devouring everything on its way. But she’s too strong, too unyielding and she didn’t let him. She has her own light she shines with, resilient and powerful. She works at the Foundation, trains girls and she’s doing amazing in doubles.

He doesn’t have to hope, he knows, he’s going to be favourite uncle to her kids. The ache of that particular _what if_ disappears in the distance, because now he knows how to properly be in the now, now he knows how to focus on one ball at the time. There is no past, there is no future. Time is running out anyway and he knows how to live (not run to) in the moment, as he has engraved on his skin, as he has tattooed on his heart.

Normally he would drink the thoughts of the future away. Dance, sing, get himself lost in the oblivion. The new chapter looming on the horizon like a prelude to yet another lost opportunity. January never feeling like a prologue to something new. Fresh. Hopeful. But like a red alert of expectations he can already taste the ash of on his tongue.

This time he goes on a beach, to his favourite spot, away from the partying groups of people, secluded, silent, his. And finds Rafa there. Like waiting for him. Like a guardian at this last chapter that might finally be a prologue to something new.

No.

Not might.

_Will be._

Like Rafa was waiting for him there all along. Like they all did. And he finally caught up, because he was no longer running.

Rafa’s watching the ocean, his profile distinctive and strangely familiar. Not because they spent so much time together, it feels like it to Nick. Like Rafa’s been a part of his life forever.

It resembles something he used to recognize as safe and cherished. You could even say, beloved.

It reminds Nick of Ajla. He would wake up to that profile on his pillow, he would whisper sweet nothings to it when she tried to watch TV, he would share strategies on court with her like that and then when she looked away from him, hurting and frustrated, he would beseech her for another chance. And then another one, and then another.

It’s a bizarre realisation. And yet it doesn’t surprise him that much. It was settled there, in the corner of his soul, waiting to be revealed. Probably since the moment he laid his eyes on Rafa on a tennis court. Since the moment he faced him that first time on a grass. It wasn’t Roger, a warrior with a flaming sword that taught him to love tennis. That warrior with a flaming sword made him step on the path to fight Naga, to try to win. Rafa taught him how to be Orang Kenit, how to be a hero, and how to vanquish the Naga.

Rafa made him realise he loves tennis. He always did. And so, by association, Nick knows now, he loves Rafa. Like he did Ajla. Like he does Ajla. A familiar. His person. Who saw so much, who saw everything, and still stayed and still believed.

He takes a seat by his site now, without saying a word. It’s enough. Them staying like that, in each other’s space, but close, close enough that their shoulders are touching and Rafa’s warm and safe and Nick leans to it.

“We never went on that cruise around the world together. And I never tried your fish, Raf,” he’s daring with the name, because it’s his. He earned the right. To call him “his” like that and he’s not afraid and he’s not ashamed. Rafa never objects, anyway. Because he knows and accepts this.

“There’s time, Nick. There’s time for everything, now,” Rafa muses, like he senses the shift in Nick. That patience and calm, no longer chasing the impossible, or escaping from difficult.

“You promise?” Nick nudges him.

“After Melbourne, si?” Rafa looks at Nick with his eyebrow raised playfully, but he says it like he means Nick’s win. With sureness absolute.

“Deal,” Nick raises his hand to clasp it with Rafa’s. He thinks about weaving their fingers together (Rafa’s fingers are calloused, scars of tennis left there permanently, badges of honour and glory, Nick thinks of with almost worship). He lingers with the touch, still. The hands of the greatest of all time that shaped Nick into who he is now. A man with purpose. A man with faith. The feeling of gratitude blurs with worship and makes him want to do things. Rafa breaks the contact. Not abruptly, though. With casual friendliness. He’s not offended. But the ring on his finger tells a different story. _Not here. Not now. Maybe in another universe._

“That final you played with Novak. In 2012. I was there, you know. It made me hope or maybe even believe. I think it made me into who I want to be on court, today, Raf,” Nick looks at the ocean, not to show too much of his soul to Rafa still leaning close to his warm presence.

“Was a loooooong way, Nick,” Rafa chuckles with cozy affection.

“Okay. _Eventually _made me into who I want to be on court today,” Nick rolls his eyes, even if Rafa can’t see it. “You signed a tennis ball for me, then. And I kept it ever since. Took it with me for every match. For good luck. Like a talisman. Silly, I know, but this ball helped me through some hard times, man.”

Nick’s drawing patterns on sand, there might be new found patience in him or calm, but he’s still pouring his heart out, right in the open, like a moron. Always an open book. But Rafa learned how to read it. Rafa didn’t look away. Rafa came back and Rafa sits now close to him, accepts everything. The whole of Nick.

“You don’t need it anymore, Nick,” Nick knows Rafa is watching him, expecting him to look back. Nick does. It’s dark, he doesn’t see Rafa’s face but he has it learned by heart, anyway. He knows when he’s disappointed. He knows when he’s expectant. He knows when he’s amused. And he thinks he knows when he’s loving back. He’s been that for the last few months. “I’m here,” the words confirm.

The fireworks light up the sky in this very moment. Poignant. Symbolic. A sign of hope.

Stars aligned to make destiny happen.

They both watch the spectacle. It feels like a prologue. Not choking expectations but hopeful beginning, as Nick lets Rafa’s words sink in inside him deep, in the very core of his heart. So that he could recall them when he struggles, instead of clutching to that ball he no longer needs.

Because Rafa is here.

  1. ** Reward (Seizing The Sword)**

_After defeating the enemy, surviving death and finally overcoming his greatest personal challenge, the Hero is ultimately transformed into a new state, emerging from battle as a stronger person and often with a prize. _  
  
The Hero’s Reward comes in many forms: a magical sword, an elixir,greater knowledge or insight, reconciliation with a lover. Whatever the treasure, theHero has earned the right to celebrate.

He’s focused. His head is clear. There’s one purpose there, pounding with, not possibility like it used to, but with lucidity and determination.

Win the ball. And then win another one. If you lose it, if you get broken, get up and fight for it. For now. For here. Not for what’s ahead. Time is running out and there is only moment. There is only one ball at a time.

The whole family’s here. And Rafa, too. He looks at the box in every match, not beseeching strength, not shouting his demands, as if expecting them to fight this battle for him. As if wanting them to deal with his anger and fear. No. He seeks their presence on his way upwards. He is alone, but they are there. Soothing reassurance. Shelter. And home. He’s not alone forever. This quest he needs to carry as a lone hero, but the victory will be shared and theirs too.

The atmosphere of a Melbourne Park is electrifying. They don’t put him on Rod Laver. He’s not box office enough. Not anymore. Or not yet. He comes back from non-existence like he often did before and no one has much expectation left anymore. It doesn’t matter to him. He soaks up this place with its brimming energy, lifting him up, making the burden of the journey less heavy. There’s nothing quite like this place and it’s not only because it’s home. He’s battling on the home surface to make the home proud, yes. But mostly he’s battling with himself to reward the faith, to know there’s more to this game he committed his whole life to, then fleeting moments of shallow entertainment.

He hopes Nana is watching. Nana is seeing him, being brave and strong. And unyielding.

He still keeps the ball in his bag, on court, and in the lockers. Even if Rafa is there, in person. Brightest presence out there. Like the sun on the sky, untouchable, unmovable Just like Ajla used to sit there in her absolute calm, balancing volcano in Nick. Rafa’s here now being the same. His. His person. That shaped him. That made him believe. That made him be where he stands now, breathing hard and sweating, but feeling alive and infinite. His skin elastic and strong, his body relentless and buzzing with intent.

He still knows how to have fun out there. There’s focus and dedication to the game, but he manufactures creative shots and dances on court like a performer, too. Rafa shakes his head with affection, not condemning, but rather fond. Because Nick dances to fight for that one ball, one ball at the time along the way. A strategy. Not a circus. No longer a crowd pleaser, even if they remember and cheer and get behind him soon enough. But the crowd will always pick their favourites, just to discard them as quickly. The crowd is whimsical and eager to judge. Nick is not playing for the crowd. He’s playing for his family and himself.

And he’s playing to win.

It doesn’t happen effortlessly. Some of the matches are 4 sets of a slog or a battle or somewhere in between. The game prolongs, making his head swell with the noise, old thoughts stir back to life, doubts, accusations, worries. During changeovers he feels alone. He feels exposed. Like an open wound. Like he used to do. But one look at the box, and he’s at peace. His mom on the phone, arranging media meetings or court booking, Matt in a Deadpool Tshirt he didn’t return, looking entirely too tight on his mass, is dancing to the music and cheering fan chants along with Christos. The girls are there with NK caps, currently jumping on Christos and showering him with kisses, probably bored out of their minds if they’re not out there, doing things. Halimah couldn’t come, a dance tour stole her away but she sent him a video in which they act like highschool sweethearts in love with Dustin and instead of actually cheering for him they giggle to each other and smooch a lot. But it works. These people in his life, never making him feel lonely, even if he stands alone on this path to glory. Dad’s tense and focused, with his encouraging gestures, playing every point with him, like Christos does and always did. And finally Rafa, watching him with warm reassurance, in NK cap, too, which makes Nick feel soft inside his chest. Him being here is a statement of faith enough, but him wearing the sign, for better and for worse, in sickness and in health. To Nick he might as well be wearing a wedding ring.

Warmth and resolve inside him swell into unbreakable shield. 

He’s ready to take on this entire slam. He’s ready to win this title. He’s ready to conquer the entire world. Again and again and again.

He moves on court to win the ball and then another and then another. And before he knows it he’s on Rod Laver Arena, facing Stefanos in the final.

God. This place. Unlike any other here. He remembers, all those years ago, when he watched Rafa and Novak clash in the battle for the dawn. It felt like it. It felt the sun didn’t rise until they stopped playing. It felt like they chased the night away with fire of their tennis, with the passion of their hearts. He remembers watching them in awe. Watching _him_ in awe. Wanting to be like him.

Nick’s here now, with his flaming sword, with his full heart and bright soul, ready to slay Naga, ready to bring the dawn, himself. There’s unbreakable focus about him, even if he jokes with the media, even if he smiles at Stef by the net with soft gratitude, his hand on the small of Stef’s back when they pose to the picture, clutching to Stef’s shirt. Words not spoken but felt. Understood.

Until he’s on his side of the court and it’s his racquet (a sword), his beating heart (his courage) and his body like weapon (strong and unyielding like Nana wanted). He’s Orang Kenit with all the magic to win.

They battle for hours. They battle like at the edge of the world. Though for Nick it is not. For Nick it is the beginning. Finally, tangible, real beginning he holds in his hands, with every ball won, with every smash of his sword that brings him closer to victory. It’s not easy. It’s Stef. He’s number one not without a reason. He’s relentless and aggressive, he stands his ground and doesn’t let Nick win any easy points.

Nick has to try, Nick has to fight for every ball. Like Rafa taught him. Like he always had it in him, no matter who’s on the other side. You play to win, not against someone (a big name, someone else’s status, glory to steal, attention to grab), but because you can. The hero of your own story. Not a headline that will pass. Not a number that will change. The moment you made your own to keep it in your heart forever.

_I was here. I mattered. I made a change. And you will remember me for it. Even when I’m gone. _

They fight like Rafa and Novak did. Nick feels weightless. His heart pumps courage and faith and his head is light and clear. Rafa sits there, a monument of calm. Like he already knows. Like he believes so much he knows it for sure.

He seals the championship with an ace. Of course he does. Instinctive, body moving on its own, hardened in fire of commitment.

He falls to the ground and everything is silent.

Peaceful.

Like under water.

Even though the crowd is roaring and music is blasting so loud. He’s beyond it. He’s in his very special place, he used to run to, run from the world, run from the voices inside, run from himself. Now he brought this place to the world and made them combine. Now he carved this space for himself among the glory and victory.

He’s calm and whole and strong. 

The purpose discovered.

The purpose fulfilled.

He’s moving on autopilot, head full of serenity. To hold on to Stef by the net, to hold on to him closely, that wisp of the ocean, of the sweetness of the fruit, of home, enveloping him in confirmation. Yes. It was meant to be. It was meant to happen. He’s where he is supposed to be.

“I’ve always known. I’m so happy now you know too.” 

Stef holds him close, as close as the net allows it. Says it like an intimate confession and says it like an acknowledgement. They will always be tiptoeing the line now. Professionals in love? Nick nods to the crook of Stef’s neck, moving forward, moving to clasp the umpire’s hand to walk out there, to the center of the arena and to embrace the crowd’s love. He has only eyes for his box, though. Nill’s shouting in joy, Christos with girls are doing the cheering dance, Dad’s crying and Rafa’s a warm spot (the sun on the sky) he draws strength from for the entire ceremony that follows.

@

The tears come later. There’s eerie silence in the locker rooms, now. Everyone came and went, hugged him, showered him with kisses and rushed to get the party ready. The place was a cacophony of noises to now plummet into stillness absolute. Nick is alone with himself, now. With his beating heart and his brimming soul. And suddenly it overflows in him. That faith that used to turn to ashes on his tongue, now warm inside him, the adrenaline that used to feel like an exhaustion now feels like wings on his back, that pride he never knew, never really had, always tried to show off as vanity and arrogance, now shimmering inside, settling down as something permanent. The insecurities are not entirely silent, the thoughts buzz under the surface of euphoria and try to break through that tranquility he harboured and kept the entire time.

So he cries. He cries into his hands, in joy, in relief, in purest, rawest emotion. He never thought he is going to learn this completion. This clarity. Of what to do, of what to want. This feeling of being so in tune with himself. It’s new, it’s scary and his body simply can’t hold it inside.

So he cries until there’s a hand on his head. Warm, big hand, with calloused fingers scarred in many battles of a hero that taught him. That showed him. A hand he would recognize anywhere. He leans to it instantly. Trusting absolutely, soaking up the sureness with it.

He opens his eyes and looks to see Rafa going down to his knees for him, to look back into his face, into his eyes. To bring himself to his level. Because they are. Both warriors, both heroes now. He whimpers out loud, wanting to stop him, crumbling under shame, crumbling under not deserving it, but Rafa’s quicker.

These warm, large, tireless hands that shaped him and now fit to his skin like he was made for them cradle his face, catch his tears and ground him. He leans more to the touch (selfish, desperate) and closes his eyes to stay in the moment forever. To tattoo it onto the surface of his heart. Rafa brings himself closer and now their foreheads are touching.

Stillness of underwater.

The cocoon of safety.

Not even winning the slam compares.

And then Rafa speaks. Soft but sure. “I’m so very proud of you.”

Nick nods, speechless, still overwhelmed, his hands now on Rafa’s shoulders, daring or needy or just seeking this grounding strength more, pulling him close, hiding his face in the crook of Rafa’s neck. Rafa’s arms go around Nick’s middle and he is holding him, keeping him together, like he always did, like he does, like he will. And they stay like that. Bodies swaying, Nick’s tears soaking into Rafa’s skin, Rafa’s hands sheltering him in this serenity of theirs.

Nick doesn’t want to break this moment ever, but Rafa must be uncomfortable like this, even if he doesn’t say, even if he stays like this, for Nick’s sake maybe, which disarms Nick even more, his fingers clutching Rafa’s shoulders more, one last time, to show gratitude, to leave his own imprint there, too. He says then, “Get on that bench, jesus.”

“Worried for my old knees, Nick?” Rafa smirks and Nick melts inside. The familiarity between them tastes like comfort. Like he never not had it and doesn’t how he was without it.

“And your old back, too,” and Rafa chuckles to that but sits on the bench, still close, no longer touching Nick, though. Nick feels a shudder of cold emptiness over not having these arms closed around him like protective wings.

Nick nudges his thigh and Rafa nudges him back as they bask in comfortable silence with post-win high setting down inside Nick with pleasant shimmer.

“What now?” Nick asks, his voice hoarse, because he’s voicing the fears that are not entirely asleep. He just knows how to keep them in check and not let them reign over him with terror now.

“Now you shower and then a huge party you mom was planning for a month or so.”

“She didn’t even know if I win?”

“She did. We all did, Nick,” Rafa’s hand is on the bench and Nick wants to reach out so much. Lace their fingers together, damn the flash of the ring. Damn everything but this unwavering faith between them.

He doesn’t.

He continues with the questions instead.

“And then?”

Silence prolongs. Poignant, brewing with purpose. Fears inside Nick are awake but not disturbing. They are inseparable part of him, he learned to understand them and accept them instead of letting them dictate his life.

“Then you can do anything you want, Nick. You won Australian Open, after over 40 years of locals absent on the podium. This is your freedom, Nick. Because everything is possible now. You decide. You the hero of your own life.”

“Wow. Too much comic books, Raf,” Nick laughs even if the feeling of complete inside him fills him up to the brink and the warmth of Rafa next to him makes him want to go back to hugging him and never letting go. The sureness he speaks with only resembles the sureness he used to speak of his tennis plans. Nick gulps on emotion.

“Also we have that cruise to make, si?” Rafa’s raising up and reaching his hand for Nick to join him. Nick eagerly clasps it, holds it longer than he needs to, really. The surface marked by the racquet held for years and years and years quickly becomes his favourite feeling to sense on skin. If only.

“I can live with that,” Nick beams, feeling infinite, with possibilities, the hunger for life expands in him. 

“Shower first,” Rafa nudges him to the cabins and sets to leave the lockers and wait with the rest of the family, yes, family, him being a part of one, outside.

“Yes, sir,” Nick salutes and practically bounces off to the showers, weightless and free.

@

There’s text message waiting for him when he returns to get dressed.

_Ready to take on number one, bro?_

Nick smiles. He can do everything, anything he wants. No pressure, no demands. Just loving tennis and playing it with this love.

_game on baby _

He replies.

_And so it is. _

**Author's Note:**

> I aged 20 years with this work. Pft. But I figured, if Nick refuses to take matters into his own hands, I'm gonna write a story where he does and cling to it, as the patterns he does repeat, until he actually wins that AO.
> 
> 1) so on a scale of Nick Kyrgios winning a grand slam and Rafa Nadal wiping away his tears later on how AU is your story? (hey, as my friend said: it's a fanfiction IT SHOULD HAVE NO CHILL, and so this one doesn't at all)
> 
> 2) don't ask me how geography works here, sometimes they are in Australia, other times they are on Bahamas and it's all very fluid, just as time is, don't sweat about, it's not a dissertation on theory of relativity 
> 
> 3) sorry for butchering greek and spanish i know neither :-((( and so all mistakes belong to google translator
> 
> 4) surfing stereotypes are a must if you have aussies in your story, armitre? (no, you are being a narrow minded hoe, me at me, oh well)
> 
> 5) and yes, well, rafa and nick were supposed to be all about mentorship and such but SHIPPINGtm jumped out and hmm it's still open for interpretation and you can be in love with more than one person, si, so....
> 
> 6) and yep, it's in the (foreseeable) future and they are all aged up


End file.
